


A Quiet Mind

by Coyote Laughing Softly (BitterNovember)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-23
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2018-08-16 20:27:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 157,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8116399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BitterNovember/pseuds/Coyote%20Laughing%20Softly
Summary: The war has affected everyone in different ways and degrees. For Ron, the changes have been subtle, but negative. For over two years, he's tried to help those close to him rebuild, letting himself fall through the cracks. Now it's their turn to be there for him. With the help of Hermione, his friends, and family, Ron begins a journey of love, healing, and growth.





	1. This is Fine (or Maybe Not)

**Hello, everyone! I’m back, with the fic I’ve been talking about working on for the past few years. This one hits close to home, dealing as it does with PTSD specifically, and mental illness in general. As someone who has dealt with it myself, as well as watched many people I care for go through it and other illnesses, I’ve often found myself......annoyed with how it’s portrayed in fiction. Generally, you have two extremes. Either the person goes completely of the deep end with drugs, alcoholism, and sex and violence, or else everything is magically cured by love. Anyone in between is left to fall through the cracks, not ‘interesting’ enough. Not spicy. Not dramatic. As if the pain is somehow less, just because some level of functionality is retained. In this fic, I want to explore this middle ground more, and the effect it can have on relationships; romantic, platonic, and familial. I also want to show that while support definitely, definitely helps, it doesn’t cure you. People can love you, and support you, but the healing takes place within, and only you can make the choices to get there. And even then, it often doesn’t go away completely.**

**Just to clear a few things up, since I know this subject makes some people nervous; Ron isn't going to be portrayed as some sort of monster. He is never going to physically harm Hermione. He’s not going to do the cliche *gasp* he calls her a Mudblood! bit either. He’s not always going to be perfect. He’s going to be snappish sometimes. The mood swings and slight paranoia is going to make him say things he doesn't mean. He’s going to make progress and backslide. Hermione, for her part, isn't going to be the quiet, dutiful girlfriend. Yes, she is going to be supportive; yes, she is going to try to be mindful of his needs. But she is going to crack a little under the confusion of not knowing what to do--it changes and it’s hard to keep up with. And sometimes she’s going to snap back at him; it’s not always easy to control your own emotional reactions when someone hurts you, even when you know why. They aren’t going to be perfect, because people.....just aren't. But it is going to be based on love and respect, and the determination to make it through to better times. Now, I know this sounds sort of dark and depressing, but I promise, that even though this is a serious subject, there’s going to be humor, and tender, loving moments throughout!**

**Some of you have been with me since the beginning of To Know You is to Love You; I hope you enjoy this second (shorter!) journey with me. Onward, into the fray!**

 

The silence in the flat felt like two heavy weights in his ears, making him uncomfortably aware of the whoosh of blood pumping through them. With a jerk of his arm, he used his wand to turn the radio on, then almost immediately turned it off; the sudden, loud noise scraping at his nerves. Fuck, but he hated days off. It threw off his schedule, and he hated sitting around, not doing anything useful when there was fucking scum out on the streets that needed to be cleaned up. He had tried, early on, to work his off days anyway, but had been banned from doing so after an..... _incident_ with Pethwick.

Ron rolled his eyes. Alright, he might’ve snapped, but in all fairness, he’d been without sleep for nearly four days straight, and that arse Pethwick was going to get someone killed one of these days with his carelessness. 

“But of course, _I’m_ the one that gets called out for it,” Ron grumbled, his voice breaking the silence. At least Harry hadn't mentioned it to anyone else--they were already nagging him about getting more sleep. Then he would have to smile and nod, when sleep was the last thing he wanted to do. Sleep meant the never ending nightmares, reliving a past he could never change. It meant waking up in a cold sweat, sobbing like a baby, feeling helpless and weak. And when he _could_ sleep, he did too deeply, for days at a time, barely waking enough to perform basic bodily functions, too sluggish to do anything else. The best thing for him was to keep going, keep working--but no one understood that, and he was tired of trying to make them. 

He looked down at his watch, which showed that enough time had passed since he woke up that he should be making an appearance at the Burrow. He was keen to go, but dreading it at the same time, a feeling that had plagued him during family gatherings for the past couple of years, ever since......

But today was his dad’s birthday, and he wouldn't hurt him for the world by not showing up--even if he didn't end up staying long. While he knew his dad worried about him as much as the rest, he was at least......quieter about it. He let Ron talk, and did more listening. And if Ron didn't feel like saying much of anything at all, he was happy for him to sit out in the shed in silence while he puttered around with whatever barmy new Muggle contraption he had brought home. 

Pushing himself to his feet, he yawned, and scratched his cheek, pausing at the stiff bristles that rasped against the pads of his fingers. He didn't really shave on a regular basis, since something about it took too much energy, and he didn't particularly feel like doing so now. But that, combined with the perpetual dark circles under his eyes, always made his mum fret about how he wasn't taking care of himself, so he stood there, debating on whether or not it was worth it.

“Sod it,” he muttered, using his wand to do a quick job, wincing at the slight sting. 

With a deep breath, he braced himself to face his family, and Apparated with a small pop.

He landed at the edge of the front yard, Already able to tell that it was crowded by the noise coming from inside, and the movement of people passing back and forth in front of the windows. He stood there, watching, unable to bring himself to move, even though the cold, bitter wind that was blowing bit at him through the heavy scarf his mum had given him for Christmas. As he stood gazing on the building he still, in some ways, considered home, he noticed that the paint had begun to peel, and made a mental note to do something about it when the weather warmed up. A project, he happily realized, that could kill several of his days off. Movement at the door had his hand flexing instinctively around his wand, only to relax when he saw it was Ginny, waving at him to come in. He raised his hand in return, trudging across the lawn to meet her.

“Mum was getting worried, since you’re the last one to show, but I told her all we had to do was open the door and let the smell of the pot roast pull you in,” she said lightly, taking his scarf and cloak to hang up. 

“It might have a tough time getting through the cat piss to the left of me, and the smell of burnt hair always coming from the flat below, but if anything could do the trick it’s Mum’s cooking,” he said with a smile, grateful that she didn't ask why he hadn't come sooner. 

“Then you’ll be extra glad that she already set aside some leftovers for you to take home. She said you looked too thin at Christmas, so I suspect she’s been trying to fatten you up at every chance since then.”

Ron rolled his eyes. “According to the staff Healer, I’m the picture of physical fitness. Not that I’m going to turn down extra food, mind you.”

Ginny laughed. “Somehow, I expected as much.” Her smile gave way as she moved slightly, blocking him from coming further into the house. “Ron, I’m not sure if anyone mentioned, but it’s going to be.....a bit more crowded than usual today,”

At the hesitance in her voice, he frowned. “I’d say eleven is pretty crowded by most standards. Wait, did Charlie come for a visit?”

She bit her lip, her eyes flickering to the side before meeting his head on. “No, Charlie couldn't make it. It’s Hermione. She’s here today. And, well, Teddy too, but I’m thinking only one really concerns you. Are you going to be able to handle it?”

He froze, fighting the impulse to snatch his cloak and scarf and Apparate back home. Hermione. He hadn’t been expecting that. Sure, she visited sometimes, but not often. Not here. _Not since she chucked me,_ he thought bitterly. They still saw quite a bit of each other. Hard not to, since they were both friends with Harry, and worked in connected departments. But as polite as he tried to be, he nevertheless made a point of limiting interactions with her. Every time he saw her, it was like knocking the scab off a wound he thought was healing, only to find it as raw and painful as it had been before. This would definitely be one of his shorter visits.

“‘Course I can. Why couldn't I? Not that I’ll be here long, since I’ve got some things I need to get done today.”

A knowing look entered her eyes, and she opened her mouth, as if to call him on his lie, before she snapped it shut, giving a resigned shrug. “Alright. That.....that’s good then. Come on, we’d better get to the kitchen before they start without us.”

Reluctantly, Ron followed her in, leaning down to kiss his mum on the cheek when she bustled over to give him a hug. 

“Sit down, sit down! I was just getting ready to start passing the food,” she instructed, pointing him to the empty seat that had been left for him.

Directly across from Hermione.

Subtle, Mum. Very subtle. 

He dropped into the chair between George and Harry, giving a half nod at the chorus of hellos that went up around him. Hermione hadn't spoken yet, helping a squirming Teddy, who must be visiting Harry today, sitting at her side. Once the toddler had been given a few spoonfuls of food to keep him quiet, she faced forward, giving him the small, plastic smile that seemed to be the only kind he could get from her nowadays.

“Hello, Ron. It’s nice to see you.”

“H’llo,” he muttered, not meeting her eye as he took the bowl of mashed potatoes from George. “Didn't know you’d be here.”

As he spooned the creamy, fluffy clouds onto his plate, he saw her flinch, the motion making him realize that it sounded like he meant he wouldn't have come if he had known. He felt guilty, then almost immediately, angry for feeling that way. How many people would do cartwheels at the sight of their ex at a family event? Alright, yeah, they were still friends. That didn't mean that the crappy, depressing memories of being dumped didn't surface every time he saw her. And he was always polite, wasn't he? Well, as polite as he ever got. Why was she even here? He could understand if it was Harry’s party, or even his or Ginny’s, but this was _his_ dad’s birthday. She was pretty keen on being part of the family, wasn't she? Unless, of course, it meant having to be connected through _him. __Did she enjoy rubbing his face in it, or--_

“Ron, if you mash those potatoes any more, they’re gonna be a liquid,” George said out of the corner of his mouth, low enough for the rest of the table to miss.

Blinking away the red haze, he looked down to find he was holding his fork in a death grip, and had made a small mess on his plate. Gritting his teeth, he scraped it back into a neat pile, and began eating normally, careful not to look up. He could feel her eyes on him, but he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction of starting a row and looking bad in front of his family. 

Luckily, the rest of the meal passed without incident, and when they moved into the living room for his dad to open gifts, Ron managed to get a seat in a far corner, slightly apart from everyone else. He watched his father closely as he tore into packages with brightly colored paper, laughing and exclaiming over the contents. Both of his parents had aged quite a bit when they lost Fred, but Ron was pleased to note that his dad had some color in his cheeks, and a genuine twinkle in his eyes that had been missing for a long time. While still showing his age, he wasn't looking as frail and breakable, causing Ron to let out an inward sigh of relief. 

“Where’s your present, Ron?” Percy called, startling him out of his thoughts.

He shifted, discomfited to have all the attention suddenly on him. Tugging on the collar of his shirt, he leaned to the side to focus on his dad. 

“Sorry, mine wasn't exactly wrappable. You know Mum’s been on you about how that shed of yours is going to fall in on you one of these days, and it doesn't really have enough space for all your ju--stuff? Well, I’m building you a bigger one.”

“Oh Ronnie, that’s so thoughtful! Isn't it, Arthur?” His mum beamed, poking his dad in the arm. “And since he’s going to all the trouble, I expect you to keep this one in good condition!”

His dad patted her hand absently, his eyes already gleaming with the possibilities. “Of course, dear, of course! Thanks, son. I’ve been meaning to for a few years, but I never seem to find the time.....”

“If you’re getting a bigger one, maybe we should get you another car to tinker with,” George said slyly, watching his mother out of the corner of his eye.

Ron laughed along with everyone else when his dad’s face brightened, at the same time his mother roared no, in her best Howler voice. He was distracted by a soft weight falling against his leg, and looked down to find Teddy grinning up at him, His greenish blue hair standing up in downy spikes. Beside him was Victoire, in a tiny purple dress and some type of ribbony clip that must have been charmed to stick in her fine blonde hair. She smiled angelically, bringing one chubby arm up to shove Teddy down. His diaper made a smacking sound as he hit the ground, and Ron watched as fat tears welled in his eyes, his face a picture of surprised betrayal. 

“Victore! We don't push!” Fleur’s voice rang out. 

Not really understanding, Victoire waddled over and patted Teddy on the head, looking at her mum for approval. 

Watching the toddlers, Ron was surprised by how big they’d gotten. It felt like only yesterday he’d taken turns holding one or the other, and he felt like he’d missed the leap from crawling to walking--in Teddy’s case, starting to run. His mood darkened. He’d been able to see more than others had. How twisted was it that he knew Teddy better than his parents ever would? And Fred and never even gotten the chance to be an uncle at all. The room became too hot, the noise from the kids too loud. Dizzily, he stood, making his way to the door.

“Ron? Is something wrong?” His mum called.

He looked back at her worried face, her hands wringing as her eyes searched his. 

“‘S’alright. Just a little hot, gonna go for a walk to cool down. Be back in a bit.”

He barely waited for her to nod before he was out the door, breathing in lungfuls of cold, burning air. It was too much at once, and he began to cough, staggering slightly as he walked away from the house, towards the fence. Once he got it together, he’d go back in for a few minutes, then make an excuse to leave. He had the file on that smuggling case they were trying to crack, and he figured a few extra hours with it and he might have a new lead by the time he had to clock in.

“Ron?” A voice came from behind him.

Oh, bloody hell.

“I said I’d be back in in a minute,” he said tightly, “You can tell Mum not to worry.”

Instead of leaving--not that he really expected her to, this being Hermione after all--he felt her arm brush against his as she came up to stand next to him, draping his cloak and scarf over the top rail of the fence. 

“She was worried you would be cold, so I brought these out so she wouldn't try to get you to come back in,” Hermione explained, her voice even.

“If that makes it more comfortable for you,” he sniped, not moving to put either on.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She asked, a hint of irritation creeping into her voice. 

He tilted his head sideways, to watch her from under his fringe. “It _means,_ I'm sure you'd like it better if you could be inside with everyone else, without having to worry about me coming back in.”

“I’m not the one avoiding the other, here,” she said, a trace of hurt in her voice that he tried to ignore.

“Of course not. You’d rather just spend time with my friends and my bloody family, without having anything to do with me. You made _that_ fucking clear when you dumped me. ‘But we’ll still be friends, Ron!’” He said in an annoyingly high-pitched voice. “‘I’ll still be a part of your life!’”

This time the hurt was unmistakable as she flinched away, tears welling in her eyes as she shook her head. “I didn't ‘dump’ you, Ron! I said we needed to take a break--”

“Two years is a helluva long break, Hermione!”

“One year, six months, and three days,” she said, her voice shaking. “Merlin, Ron! Did you think I actually _wanted_ to?”

 

“Since I’ve never known you to do a damn thing you didn't want to, yeah, pretty much. But I reckon you have a reason that makes it all my fault.”

Hermione clenched her eyes closed as she turned around and threw her back against the fence, her hair crackling from her hands running through it, the hair tie falling to the ground unnoticed. “I wasn't going to go into this today. I don't know, maybe i've just been avoiding it, knowing how difficult it was going to be. But since you brought it up, I might as well. Do you want to know why I did it? Do you really, truly want to know?”

Did he? Probably not. It was probably just one more thing to hate about himself. Knowing that didn't prevent him from giving a short jerk of a nod.

“Right. Fine. I’ll tell you then. It was good in the beginning, Ron. Better than you'd imagine, given the situation. We were both messed up from the war--I think everyone was, who was involved to any extent. But I thought we were helping each other. I thought that over time, we’d get better.”

“That’s what I thought, too,” he put in, when she stopped to gather her thoughts. 

“But it didn't work that way,” she continued sadly. “You didn't get better. You got worse. At first, it wasn't really noticeable. You would get quiet, at times, and upset--”

“My brother had just fucking died! I think I was entitled to--”

“And that’s why I didn't think anything of it, then! Or the nightmares, since most of us were having them. And we’ve always been the type to bicker over harmless things, enjoying the challenge and....well, the making up. But you began to do it over every little thing as if they were important. You were harsher about it, and it wasn't just with me, but everyone else. You were angry so much of the time......When I was in Hogwarts, I wasn't aware of how bad it had gotten. I only knew that your letters came less frequently, and that they were shorter. I thought things would be better when I graduated and we had more time together.”

“I _was_ busy! And hell, I missed you, I don't think you know how much. Writing was hard because it always reminded me how far away you were,” Ron frowned down at the ground, remembering. 

“And sometimes, you even acted like it,” she allowed. “But more and more often, it felt like being with me just upset you. I began to notice you were that way with others, too. And when we......when we would make love, it......hurt.”

Ron reared back at that, a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. She’d never told him that! Never acted like it, either! He’d never wanted to hurt her, would've cut off his cock first. “I didn't....you never told me I--”

“Not physically,” she rushed on.

“Then how?” He asked sharply, his fear starting to turn to anger from the scare she had given him.

“You started wanting to less, and when we did, you acted as if--as if enjoying it disgusted you. After awhile, it wasn't just sex. It was doing anything together, and you were acting that way with others. When Victoire was born, it was almost as you resented her, and Bill and Fleur for it.”

“That’s stupid!” He snapped. “I didn't--I was just upset that Fred wasn't there for it, and it happened so soon after--”

“But that was going to be true no matter how long they waited. Was it ever really going to be long enough to make that pain go away?”

He shook his head, feeling dizzy and slightly smothered, everything closing in. “No, of course not, but--”

“Everyone noticed, Ron. Everyone’s been worried.”

“Talked about it, did you?” He snarled, his head snapping up. “Everyone getting together to talk about what a cock-up Ron is. Is it at random, or do you have monthly meetings?”

“Don't be ridiculous, of course we don't--”

“I bet no one ever points out anything else i've done,” he said, talking faster and louder. “How I helped George with the shop, or Mum. How I--”

“We all know that, Ron! Do you think any of us could have missed it? You were amazing with everyone! I think George would have fallen apart completely if you hadn't been there for him, and you were so good about spending time with your mum.....but something was clearly wrong!”

“And knowing that, you decided it was a good time to leave me?”

“I didn't know what else to do!” She implored, reaching out to grip his arm.

He drew in a breath at the contact, but didn't move to break it. He couldn't look away from her eyes, and the undeniable sadness he found in their depths. She sounded confused, a tone he wasn't used to hearing from Hermione except in the most dire of circumstances. She was always so sure of everything, always in control of a situation, that Ron knew things had to have been worse than he realized for her to be pushed that far. 

“I thought that maybe I was too much on top of everything else, that you just needed some space and time. I thought.....I thought if I just waited a while, you’d......you’d get better. But oh, Ron, you haven't! You haven't, and I d-don't know what to do to help!”

She was sobbing at this point, her hands having moved up to grasp the front of his jumper. Since the breakup, it had felt like there was a chasm between them, an empty space that neither could cross. For the first time in a long time, she felt close, and in ways that were not at all physical. Rusty, long disused instincts stirred within him, and slowly, he raised his arms to pull her closer, his head resting lightly on top of her hers. He half expected her to push him away, but if anything, she pressed more closely into him, and he closed his eyes, breathing deeply. 

 

Was he really as fucked up as Hermione was saying? He knew......he knew he wasn't exactly the way he was before the war. And while he hadn't really expected to be, there was always the nagging little feeling that his changes were different in some way than the others. Hermione wasn't a liar. At least, not unless it had something to do with keeping them alive. If she didn't want to be with him, she wouldn't make up an elaborate reason like this. And, as odd as the situation was, he got the sense that she did actually want to be with him. 

“Hermione?”

“Y-yes?” She sniffed, pulling back slightly. 

“Are you saying that if I fixed whatever is wrong with me, we could, you know....”

She sighed. “Ron, I don't want you to do it to be with me. I want you to get better because that’s what you _need._ If you were getting help, then yes, I would support you, and we could work on getting our relationship back, although I don't think it would be a good idea to.....jump right back to how it was before. But I think I could at least say that seeing each other exclusively was an option.”

He considered it for a few minutes.

“I’m still not sure that there’s really all that much wrong with me,” he said slowly, “But I’m willing to look into it, and work at it if there is. Can.....can I ask one thing, though?”

Using the cuffs of her jumper, she wiped the moisture away from her eyes. “What is it?”

“Do you love me?” 

He hadn't realized it until he said it, but a lot was hinging on her answer. Ever since they had broken up, it had eaten at him. He’d lie awake at nights, going over and over in his mind what had made her stop loving him, or if she ever really had. Sometimes, it felt like a tiny piece of that bloody locket had stayed with him. 

Tenderly, she brought her hands up to his face, her thumbs stroking over his jaw. “I love you, Ron. So much! That’s one thing that’s never changed.”

She was looking at him with such a loving expression; one he’d only ever seen her use with him, and it brought to mind their first few months together, of stolen kisses in the orchard, and holding her hand under the kitchen table. 

“Me too. You know that, right?” He asked, his heart sinking when her expression clearly said she hadn't. “Fuck. Well, I do! But......I guess somehow, I stopped being able to show it very well. Are you sure that we can't, you know, just try again, and see if just having you around helps?”

She was already shaking her head, her voice firm when she answered. “No. If that was going to be enough, we wouldn't have reached this point. I love you, Ron, but I can't fix this for you, as much as I wish that weren't so. I can help you, and I can support you, but the one who has to make the changes is you.”

Somehow, he had suspected as much. But she was at least going to be with him, right? He wasn't helpless. If there was really something he needed to fix, he could do it. He just didn't particularly like the idea of doing it alone. 

“Fair enough,” he said, feeling some of the tension leave her arms. “So......can I come over or something when I.....when I figure out what I’m doing? Is that alright?”

“Of course it is; you can even come over before that, if you want, and I’ll help you figure out what to do.”

That.....no. He was more than a little confused right now, and he knew Hermione would take this and run with it, planning things out before he was even sure that was the direction he wanted to take. Things between them had been strained, and she was right in saying they needed to ease back into it. A fight this soon was the last thing they needed.

“Actually, I think I’m going to go home right now and think it over. I’m not sulking, or anything!” He added, seeing her looking disappointed. “It’s just.....a lot to take in, you know? The Burrow is too full for me to be able to think straight right now.”

Hermione smiled in understanding. “I’ll make an excuse for you, then, so no one worries. Come by when you have everything sorted, alright? We can talk more then.”

Relieved that she wasn't going to press him, he smiled. “Yeah. It’ll probably be tomorrow or later, but I’ll at least send an owl, or stop by your office during lunch.”

“That sounds good. Ron? I--I’m really glad, that you're going to, you know, get some help. I want this to work, so badly......Not just us, but you. I--I want you to be alright. Happy. More at peace.”

“I want that, too,” he agreed, although he wasn't sure what she meant by the last two. He was happy, wasn't he? Well, now that they were going to try again. And he was peaceful. Except for the nightmares. And dealing with complete arses, who seemed to pop up everywhere.

“I’m gonna go ahead and go now,” he said, looping his scarf around her neck, flopping one wide end over her head. “It’s fuckin’ freezing out here, so you should go in and warm up. Tell Dad I’ll be over soon to work on his shed, will you?”

She nodded, her eyes suspiciously wet again, and stood on her tiptoes briefly to give him a quick peck on the jaw, before she turned and darted back to the Burrow. Ron, surprised at the display of affection, reached up to touch the place where her lips had made contact, tingling at the sensation. How long had it been since he had been touched like that? With a shake of his head, he gripped his wand, shivering. Now that he wasn't so upset, he was feeling the cold. With a small pop, He Apparated back to his flat, doing his usual check to make sure no one had broken through his wards. 

Feeling a bit peckish since he’d left before the cake was brought out, he headed into the kitchen, fixing himself a small sandwich and grabbing some crisps and a few biscuits to go with it. He plopped down at the table, eating slowly, thinking over the things Hermione had told him. He had never meant for things to end this way between them. At first, it had seemed like things were going to be alright. Better than alright, even. They had been supporting each other, and he had decided even back when he had returned to camp after abandoning them that he was going to be more mature, take better care of the people that mattered to him. He’d thrown himself into that, trying to help everyone heal as much as possible, after the gaping loss of one of their own. Then Hermione started back to Hogwarts, and he was still helping the others and working, and eventually adding training to that. Things had gotten pretty stressful, but there was nothing to be done for it. Everything he was doing was important, and he just figured that once he got to a certain point, things would slow down, and the tight, tense knot in his chest would loosen up. 

 

It hadn't, though. Sometimes it seemed like it would, then it would come back in full force. Maybe he was working too hard? Everyone was always telling him he was. Could be that all he needed was a break. The idea made him uneasy. He couldn't _really_ take a break though, could he? There was too much to be done at work. If he wasn't there, who knew how long some of those bastards would be left out on the streets! Innocent people were counting on him.....

A sense of guilt filled him at forgetting them for the afternoon filled him, and he quickly cleaned and put away his dishes with a few flicks of his wand, before going back to the files he had been looking at earlier. He tried to focus on them, but his head was hurting, and his conversation with Hermione kept coming back. She had said the others had noticed, hadn't she? 

He looked down at his watch. It had been about an hour since he had left; people might be starting to head home. He’d just pop over to Harry’s and wait for him there, and see what he had to say. Having been Harry’s best friend since they were eleven, and also having lived here himself for a little over a year, meant that Ron was one of the few people able to get through the wards, making himself at home in the living room. Sprawled on the couch, he picked up a Quidditch magazine that either Harry or Ginny had left lying on the table, flipping idly through the pages. He squinted, puzzled; why did the layout look different? 

“Would Master Weasley be wanting any refreshment?” Kreacher croaked from the end of the sofa, where he had silently appeared. 

Ron gave a small jump, his hand going for his wand. “Damn! I’m not used to you sneaking up like that anymore! Nah, I ate before I came, but thanks.”

Kreacher sketched a bow, then shuffled from the room. 

Ron watched him go, wondering if he wasn't moving a little slower than usual; no one was really sure exactly how old Kreacher was, but he had to be ancient. At the sound of the Floo, he twisted his head in time to see Harry stumble into the room, coughing slightly from some powder that must’ve gotten in his mouth. Catching sight of Ron, he drew up short, blinking in surprise. 

“Ron? That you?”

“Well, I’m certainly not Ginny,” he drawled.

“True; when Ginny meets me stretched out on the sofa, she usually isn't wearing--”

“Don't make me vomit, Potter.”

Laughing, Harry dropped into a chair, giving Ron an assessing look from under his fringe. “So, What’s up? I wasn't expecting to see you after you left.”

The springs of the sofa squeaked as he sat up, running his hands through his hair nervously. Now that he was here, he didn't know what to say, or where to start. “Ah. Yeah. Hermione say anything?”

Harry shook his head. “Not......really. Just one of those polite things she’s able to do, where you don't realize she hasn't actually said much of anything till later. Is something wrong?”

 

Okay, and least she hadn't told everyone. That was good. He shifted on the cushion.

“No, not really. Actually, it’s pretty brilliant. Hermione......we’re sort of back together.”

His friend’s mouth flopped open, his eyes bulging. He looked as if he’d been Stunned, then Ennervated as he bolted up in his seat.

“I--wow, really? That’s great, Ron! Fantastic!”

Ron eyed him suspiciously. For some reason, Harry’s enthusiasm rang a tad false. “Something tells me there’s a ‘but’ there somewhere.”

“No, of course not!” Harry protested, hands raised protestingly. “I just didn't think she was going to....erm, quite yet, you know......”

“So you think I’m loony, too,” he said with resignation. 

“What the hell are you on about?” Harry asked, looking genuinely puzzled.

“She didn't tell you? It’s just that.....there’s sort of a condition. Hermione thinks--she thinks I need some kind of help.”

“Ah. That was it.” Harry said softly, sitting back in his seat with a thoughtful look at the floor.

“See! You think I’m ready for a ward in St. Mungo’s too!”

“No one thinks you’re mental, Ron!” Harry snapped, his eyes flashing behind his glasses. “But truthfully, yeah, everyone’s noticed that things haven't been right with you for a long time. The thing is, I don't think _you’ve_ ever noticed.”

“Am I the same person I was back in, say, sixth year? No. Who the hell is? What is it I should be noticing?”

Harry took his glasses off, furiously rubbing the lenses before replacing them. “Okay, you want examples?” He pointed to the magazine Ron had glanced through earlier. “Open that to the Player of the Month page.”

Rolling his eyes, Ron flipped to the back. “Here. Happy?”

“Look again.”

Looking down, Ron found himself staring at Bungled Bludgers, the humor section detailing Quidditch mishaps. “So the layout is cocked up. So what?”

“They changed the layout over a year ago,” Harry pointed out gently. “You just haven't taken enough of an interest to notice.”

Ron tossed it down on the table, avoiding Harry’s eyes. “So what? I’m not a kid anymore. You don't pay as much attention when you grow up.”

“Not sure where that leaves me and Ginny.”

“That’s different--”

“Oh, come on, Ron! You love Quidditch as much as we do! But you hardly even play with us anymore when we get a game going at the Burrow. You never joined the department team. You don't do anything for fun!”

“That’s not true! And even if it was, I’m busy when I'm not working. I do a lot with the family--”

“It _is_ true, and you know it! As for doing things with the family......Ron, most of the time it feels like.....like it’s work to you. I mean, yeah, everyone knows you love ‘em, but it feels like you’re ticking off things on a chore list. And you get so mad......you’ll be laughing over something one day, and biting someone’s head off over it the next.”

“If I’m as bad as you make me out to be, it's a wonder you have me around at all!” Ron shot back tightly.

“It’s not about you being bad, or mental, or any of those words you keep using to describe yourself!” Harry said, sitting forward with his hands partially outstretched, trying to get Ron to understand. “Sometimes, it’s even like all of that goes away, and you’re _you_ again! But then......it’s like you get pulled back under again, and drowned out by.....whatever is hurting you.”

“I was hoping it was just Hermione,” he said quietly. “But if it’s you, too....”

“If you need someone else to tell you, why don't you go talk to George? You’ve worked pretty closely with him, and he’s been in a bad place before too, so he might know how to put it better.”

“I believe you, Harry. It’s just....hard to take in. I told Hermione I’d see someone about it, and I reckon I better, at least once. Guess it might be good to hear what George has to say, though.”

“Ron, you do know that whatever it is, we support you, right? We just.....we just want you to be happy. Really happy. And we’re behind you, whatever that takes.”

Feeling emotional, Ron bit his lip, nodding. “Yeah. I know. And--and it means a lot.”

Harry stood, coming over to clap his hand on Ron’s shoulder. “It’s gonna be alright, mate. We’ll help you through this. You’ll get things sorted and start feeling more like yourself, work things out with Hermione......things’ll get better.”

“I guess Hermione wouldn't invest her time if she thought I was a hopeless case,” he said, smiling thinly.

“Hermione’s never thought you were hopeless. She’d drop you and not look back if you were a deliberate arse, but everyone knows this isn't a way you made a choice to be. Hermione’s been worried sick, you know? She wanted to help sooner, but.....you haven't really been letting anyone in.”

With a deep breath, Ron stood up. “I didn't shut her out on purpose. Or anyone else, for that matter. It just.....sometimes it feels like everyone’s far away.”

“But we’re not. We really aren't, Ron. Maybe you just, I dunno, have to learn how to get back to us--or to feel like you’re already with us.”

Ron nodded, feeling tired. “I think I’ll go see George. Maybe you’re right, and he knows more about it.”

“And you’re still going to try to work things out with Hermione?”

“I....yeah. I love her, Harry. I don't know what the hell’s wrong with me that I stopped showing her right, but what we had was good, and i'm not gonna lose it by sittin’ around a doing nothing about it. And even if we weren't going to.....it’s affecting more than just my relationship with her, isn't it? I don't think I can keep on like that and end up anywhere good.”

“Just let us know if you need anything, alright? You don't have to do it alone.”

“Someone’s come a long way from fifth year,” Ron snorted.

Harry socked him on the arm. “Go on then, you git! Don't say I never shared any of my great wisdom!”

Ron laughed, shaking his head as he went to the Floo. Grabbing some powder, he turned. “Hey, where’s Ginny? She’s free this weekend, so isn't she staying with you?”

“Yeah, but she went out with Fleur for a few hours; Fleur needed some adult time, since Victoire is having problems fully coming off the bottle.”

“Guess that explains the matching circles under her and Bill’s eyes. Later, Harry!”

Calling out the name of the shop, Ron was yanked away, dumped unceremoniously in the dark. Lighting his wand, he bumped around in the spare office, stepping out into the hall. He went up the narrow set of stairs to the small flat that George usually shared with Angelina, hoping his brother was home. The light filtered under the door, and at Ron’s knock, he heard footsteps growing closer. Instead of George, it was Angelina that met him, her eyes widening in surprise before she smiled.

“Ron! Come on in; maybe you can distract George from creating something that ensures the place will smell of sulphur and bogies for weeks on end.”

“I told you how _you_ could distract me, so you’ve no one to blame but yourself since you turned me down!” George called, from his position in a thick recliner, both legs draped over one arm.

“Don't tell me he’s in one of his creative moods,” Ron groaned. 

“We have to stay ahead of competition, Ron. Our customer base is fickle, and they’ll go with whoever can make the biggest stink.”

“I think I’ll leave you boys to discuss these weighty, important matters,” Angelina said with a smirk, bundling up to go out, a small duffel bag at her feet.

“You don't have to leave because of me, I wasn't planning on staying long!” Ron said, feeling bad. He knew George and Ange were slowly starting to move in together, and he didn't want to get in the way.

But Angelina waved him off, giving his shoulder a slap as she passed. “No worries, Ron. I was just leaving anyway. Mum’s not feeling well, and it’s my night to sit with her.”

“Give my best to your mum,” George said to her, leaning his head up as she bent to kiss him before heading for the door.

“Will do; see you tomorrow!”

As the door shut behind her, George dropped the tattered little notebook he used to scribble down ideas to the floor, shifting his attention to Ron.

“So, was there something I could do for you? Unless you felt the overwhelming urge to drop by to volunteer for product testing.”

Ron dropped onto the striped sofa, his hands dangling between his splayed legs as he sat forward. “I need to talk to you. About something important.”

George frowned, eyeing him carefully. “Alright, sure. But I thought the time for looking that grim over anything was safely behind us. What’s up?”

“I.....I talked to Hermione today. About why we broke up. Or why she decided we should.....take a break, I guess.”

“She came back inside with her head still firmly on her shoulders, so I guess it went alright?”

“She thinks something’s wrong with me. Harry does too. I--I came to ask what you thought.”

With a sigh, George sat back. “You know, normally I’d take any opening you gave me to tell you something is wrong with you and run with it, but today I’m going to ignore that urge.”

“That means there’s something wrong,” Ron said, his tone dull.

“Ron, you know I’m not so great with stuff like this, so I’m just going to say this blunt and fast. Yeah, I think they’re right. I’ve noticed it for a long time, but I also know from personal experience,” he smiled bitterly, “That being pushed before you're ready to admit it doesn't do a damn bit of good. I’m guessing Hermione had something to do with that?”

“She said she still loves me, and want things to work, but that I need to get help.”

They were silent for a few moments, both of them digesting that.

“Angelina was the same way,” George confessed, breaking the silence. “Told me she loved me, but wasn't going to sit around and hold my hand while I destroyed myself. She made an appointment for me one day, and told me I could either go and she’d do whatever she could to help me with it, or she was gone, because she wasn't coming to watch them plant me beside Fred.”

Ron winced at that, and George laughed. “Brutal, isn't she? I think I only went the first few times out of a combination of fear she’d leave me, and to prove to her that nothing was going to help me.”

“Are you still going?” Ron asked, slightly uncomfortable at prying, but wanting any usable information he could get.

“Not nearly as often, but yeah. Once I stopped fighting it so much, it helped. You’ll notice you haven't had to drag my carcass out of a pub in a long time.”

“Well, yeah, but I just thought you’d finally got it under control. I know you still drink.”

George shook his head. “Don't tell anyone, but.....I actually had to quit for awhile. It was during that really bad patch last spring, remember?”

Ron did; George had been in fine form then, and hardly even able to work he was so likely to take someone’s head off.

“They taught me a trick to disguise butterbeer. I’m sort of having to learn how to drink again. Now, if I do, only the first one is actually firewhiskey, and I don't do it when I’m alone, or upset at all.”

“And Angelina helps?”

“Damn right she does!” George nodded emphatically. “She knows how to cut me off without embarrassing me, knows how to get me out of a situation without drawing attention to it. And now that I’m not pissed out of my mind most of the time, she’s there to talk me through it when things start getting dark in my head.”

“So you're fine with it, then? Being stuck seeing someone for it forever?”

“Who said it was forever? Believe it or not, I’m actually making pretty good progress. Soon I’ll probably only have to go in around holidays, or what they call ‘major life moments.’ Eventually, they’re pretty sure I won't have to at all. Besides, I think it’s worth it. I’d already lost enough with Fred. How could I choose to lose everything else if there was something I could do about it?”

“You still had us,” Ron pointed out. “Even though you could be a right bastard at times, we’d never have turned you away.”

With an impatient shake of his head, George said, “That’s not the point! I mean, sure, I’m grateful for that, obviously.But it’s like.......it’s like with Ange. She and her family had a hard time during the war, and then her favorite cousin died, and her mum’s health has been shite. And I’ve been helping her get through that. Before......I wasn’t. I didn't even know she was having problems, because I was too busy drowning in mine to notice, and she couldn't count on me enough to even mention it. I couldn't help her until I’d helped myself. Same as with Mum; I was too busy tearing myself apart to even think about her, and how hard it was on her to watch me going the same way as Fred. But now, even though both of us are still fucked up over it, I can be there for her, and let her be there for me. I’ll Hex you if you tell anyone, but I feel closer to her than I ever have.”

“But it’s different with me!” Ron said, unsure why he was so upset. “I didn't try to lick the bottom of every Firewhiskey bottle I came across. I’ve always been there for the rest of the family. So how is it that everyone’s thinking something’s wrong with me?”

“Of course it’s different with you,” George said, giving him a look as if he were thick. _We’re_ different! And I don't think yours is just about Fred, either. Since you never went off the deep end like I did, it’s harder to know how to step in. It’s like--like you’re straddling this line, and every once and awhile you lean on one side more than the other. It’s easy to think that you’ll be alright with just a little more time, but it stays at that point and never actually gets better.”

“Harry and Hermione said I’m angry a lot, and that I don't like Quidditch anymore. The first I’m willing to admit I might have a problem with, but I don't know what the hell’s the matter with not being mad about Quidditch.”

“They’re right. No one can ever tell when something is gonna set you off, or what it’ll be. And it’s not just Quidditch, Ron. You don't really like.....anything. Hell, even when you were babysitting me in pubs, you never took a bird home with you.”

“I was with Hermione--”

“I meant after that, you git! Even when you were single, you weren't even tempted. You’ve been randy ever since you hit puberty, so don't tell me that’s normal for you not to even be interested.”

Well. No. It wasn't. He’d always had a rich fantasy life, so to speak, but he’d just figured that he’d grown up. But that wasn't true, was it? Surely thoughts like that didn't just cut off before you were even twenty-five. With mounting horror, he found he couldn't even recall the last time he’d had a wank, and that used to be a daily occurrence!

“You don't take an interest in anything, Ron. You do whatever you think the family needs you to, but you do it with a wall put up. You haven't made any friends at work. And speaking of work, that’s the only thing you put a lot of emotion into, and even that....is usually kind of negative. You don't even enjoy closing a case. As soon as one’s over, you’re ready to tear into the next one. It’s like you don't even let yourself feel.”

“That’s not true,” he muttered, his eyes fixed on the fleur-de-lis pattern of the rug that he couldn't recall seeing here before--it must be one of Angelina’s additions. 

“Oh yeah? When was the last time you were really happy? What was the last thing you really enjoyed doing? The last time you felt comfortable?” George challenged. 

“I don't know, alright!” He roared, unable to stand the questions. “I just--everything’s all--it’s too loud in my head and I don't remember.”

“I know that feeling,” George said quietly.

“Yeah, well, and least you have Angelina to help get you through it. Didn't up and leave you, did she?” Ron said bitterly, the sting of Hermione’s abandonment coming back full force.

“Ron, do you honestly think the rest of us would be perfectly fine with her always being with the family when we get together if that was true?” George asked, frown lines creasing his forehead.

“Well, yeah, since that’s what--”

“Do you know how often she’s over asking about you? At the Burrow. At the shop. With Harry, and even Bill. She’s constantly worrying, trying to make sure you’re alright.”

He was pulled up short at that information. Somehow, he’d just assumed that.....Hermione had gotten on with her life, and just popped in at the Burrow on special occasions. “She could’ve saved the time and just asked me.”

George gave a grim laugh. “That was the problem, Ron. She couldn't. You were shutting her out, same as you did with everyone else when you weren't focused on helping us. Sometimes, you’d just look through her like she wasn't even there. And there near the end, no matter what she said, you managed to turn it into a fight.”

“So it was my fault, is that what you're saying? Of course. It always is. It’s always me that--”

“No one thinks it’s your fault,” George cut in, with a heavy sigh of exasperation. “Seriously, Ron. Even Hermione. No one thinks you’re doing it on purpose.”

“If she had just told me in the first place.....” Ron said, circling back.

George leaned forward, his eyes intent. “Would you have listened, Ron? Honestly, would you have listened?”

He opened his mouth to say that of course he would have, but no words came. His tongue darted out nervously to lick his chapped lips, the flakes of skin smoothing momentarily with the moisture. He wanted to say yes, but that one stubborn corner of his mind wouldn't let him be anything other than honest. If Hermione had mentioned this years ago, he would've been mad. Probably would've thought she was using it as an excuse. It was only now, after things had gone so badly for so long, that he was forced to see it. 

“I don't know what to do, George,” he admitted haltingly. “I.....I don't know how to fix any of this, or even where to start.”

“And you think I did?” George asked, heaving himself out of his chair and plunking down beside Ron, a heavy arm coming down across his shoulders. “Trust me, I didn't--which you should know, since you were one of the ones dragging me back from the brink, no matter how hard I fought it. If it’d been left to me, I wouldn't have come this far. But that’s what getting help is for; they’ll help you make sense of the messed up shite in your head, and where you need to start to fix it.”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“Look, it’s probably all starting to hit you. Back when I first started to come to terms that I had to do something, I was so knackered I felt like I could sleep for a week. Why don't you go home, get some rest, and see how things look tomorrow?”

Ron nodded, grateful for the chance to escape. It was all becoming too much, and he needed to be alone before it came exploding out. He stood up, his limbs feeling heavy and numb.

“You’re right. Thanks, George. I guess I just needed to....I dunno.” He said with a shrug, moving towards the door.

“Ron?” George called to him, before he could make it into the hallway.

“Yeah?”

“Do you want things to change?”

With a pang, sharp memories of the weeks after the war returned. He’d thought that aside from Fred, his life was finally on the track he had wanted. He’d had such plans; a steady relationship with Hermione, a good career, being close with his family......time for fun. He was so far from all of that, wasn't he? Things with Hermione were broken and in need of fixing, instead of being engaged at this point, as he’d hoped. He was good at his job, but he knew he didn't fit well with the team, which would only hurt them all in the long run. He did everything he could for his family......except let them in as close as he knew they wanted to be, as _he_ wanted them to be. As for fun, that was practically a foreign word.

“Yeah. Yeah, I really do.”

George’s mouth lifted in a half smile. “Then it will. You’ve got enough of the Weasley stubbornness to do it, Ronnie.”

It was enough to bring a fleeting, yet genuine smile to his face as he shut the door, retracing his path back down to the Floo, not feeling like Apparating home. Once back in the quiet of his own home, he checked his wards for the night, and walked slowly into his room, stripping down to his boxers and tossing his clothes on a chair. His mattress sagged as he sat down, his toes curling into the thick loops of the bedside rug. Something deep within him had cracked today, allowing emotions that rarely surfaced to rise within him, an internal whirlpool. He looked down at his hands, which were shaking, and they didn't stop even though he gripped his knees hard enough to leave marks. Everything he had ever wanted seemed so far out of reach. Somehow, without realizing it, he had walled off sections of himself that he didn't even know how to access anymore. Nothing felt quite right, and everything he used to enjoy now hardly touched him, as if they’d never meant a thing. He didn't know himself, and he was, quite frankly, terrified. Slowly, he fell to his side, his body drawing up in the fetal position.

For the first time in a very, very long time, Ron cried; harsh, wracking sobs shaking his body, rocking him in a sort of macabre lullaby until, exhausted and spent, he slid into the blackness of unconsciousness.

 

 

 


	2. A Brief Dip in an Egyptian River (I Get By With a Little Help From My Friends)

**A.N. Hello, everyone! Glad you decided to come back for the next chapter.**

**A funny thing happens, when you’re first facing up to the fact that something is wrong. No matter how bad it is, you try to brush it off. It can't be that bad; you’ll be fine on your own. And then, grudgingly, you accept that _maybe_ there’s one or two points you need to work on--minor ones, of course! But you can handle it, now that you know. You’ll be able to recognize every sign, and control yourself before it gets out of hand. But you are Aware. You’ll become the type of person that stays hydrated, runs ten miles a day, keeps up with all their tasks, and grows prizewinning plants. You will Have it Together.**

**And then suddenly, out of nowhere, you're sobbing, screaming, and kicking a candy machine because it isn't giving you a candybar......until someone gently steps in and tells you that you forgot to put in your money. Confused and embarrassed, you have to face facts that maybe keeping it together is going to require a little bit more than you realized.......**

 

 

The steady rhythm of hippogriffs tap dancing on his eyelids roused Ron out of his deep slumber, moaning as he rolled his head to a cooler section of his pillow, sweat making his hair cling unpleasantly to his forehead. He cracked his eyelids , regretting it instantly, squinting them almost closed as harsh sunlight beamed in through the crack of his curtain, unerringly zeroing in on his eyeballs. Rolling onto his back, he draped one arm across his face to block out the light. If the sun was already this high, it meant he had slept in much later than usual. Which was odd, because he didn't feel rested at all; more like he’d been hit by the Knight Bus, and they’d circled back to try to finish the job. 

Slowly, bits from yesterday trickled back to him. His dad’s party. The tentative reconciliation with Hermione. The reason why a reconciliation was necessary in the first place. Harry and George adding their two knuts. Coming home and crying like a tit.

All in all, rather a lot to take in.

He sighed, using one hand to scratch his stomach. Now that he had time to reflect, it seemed like they were making a bigger deal out of it than it really was. Alright, so he wasn't hundred percent; he wasn't _that_ bad! He could manage on his own. All he needed to do was......work on a few bad habits that he’d developed. He wasn't a child, he could do that much without getting some stranger to hold his hand. Sure, now that he knew there was something wrong--not a lot, but something--he’d be just fine sorting it out on his own. There was a slight sound, almost like a spring in the mattress popping, and Ron frowned.

“Wake up, Sleeping Beauty, or you’re going to be late!”

Ron almost knocked his teeth out with one bony knee as he jerked into a sitting position, his hand darting for his wand before he relaxed, scowling furiously at Harry, who was smiling sunnily at him from the middle of the room.

“You’re getting too fucking good at silent Apparition,” he grumbled, flopping back down. 

“I must be, to be able to sneak up on Mad Eye Weasley, Mr. Constant Vigilance himself,” Harry said dryly.

“Something that’s kept us alive on more than one mission, so you shouldn't complain,” Ron pointed out, still making no move to get up.

“Yeah, yeah. Come on and get dressed, we’re going to be late if you don't get a move on!”

Noticing Harry’s agitation, Ron pushed himself into a half sitting position. “Late? For what? Did we get a tip or something?”

“Wha--no, this isn't about work. You told Hermione you'd look into getting some help, remember?”

Ron slid back down onto his pillows.

“Oh. Yeah, that. I didn't realize there was such a rush.”

Harry peered at him keenly. “You’re backing out, aren't you?”

Why did he pick now of all times to get perceptive? Ron thought back fondly to a more oblivious, less emotionally aware Harry. 

“Look, Harry, I’ve been thinking--”

“Always dangerous. I can trace back just about every cock up you’ve ever made to ‘thinking,’” Harry said.

With two fingers raised, Ron continued, “I’ve been _thinking,_ and I’m sure I can handle this myself.”

“Really?” Harry asked with a raised eyebrow. “So you could have done it all this time, but you just chose not to?”

“Of course not! If I had known I was--”

“If you couldn't tell then, how do you think you'll be able to now?”

“I--I don't know, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out--or you and Hermione will be happy to tell me if I fuck it up.”

Harry crossed his arms. “Ron, you don't exactly listen to us when you get.....the way you do.”

“Fine, Harry! What do you suggest?” Ron asked, throwing his arms up and letting them flop back down on the bed. 

“I suggest you get your arse out of bed and into some clothes, and come with me down to headquarters. I got you an appointment with the department mind healer.”

Ron shot up, panic thrumming through his veins. “What the hell? Why'd you go and do that! I didn't want this getting around, especially at work! What’ll happen to me when the higher ups think they’re dealing with a nutter? I’ll be sacked!”

“That’s not true at all, Ron!” Harry said, looking more sympathetic. “For one thing, you're not a nutter. For another, that’s what he’s there for, you know? To deal with Aurors that are in a bad place because of their work, and--”

“But I’m not--whatever I am--because of work!”

“No, but I think a lot of it has to do with......with what happened that year, and the war. That counts, you know. Besides, you’ve been more in danger of losing your job because of that temper of yours. I think they’ll be happy you’re working on it. Plus, I don't think they’re even allowed to talk about it, so it’s not going to get out.”

“With the gossip chain we have? Doubtful,” Ron said gloomily. “Shite. Fucking.....” He ran his hands through his hair, feeling tense. “Alright, I’ll go in. Once. Just to see what he has to say. That doesn’t mean I’ll go back if I don't think it’s right.”

“If you really don't like him, we can try somewhere else,” Harry agreed. “But he’s supposed to be good, and it’s also covered in your medical plan.”

Ron raised his head at that. “Hadn't even thought about that; yeah, I guess that would be best. Gimme a sec to put something on.”

“I’ll wait in the living room,” Harry said, closing the door behind him.

With a groan, Ron stood up. He didn't have much time, and at least since it wasn't work, he didn't need to put much effort in. The stubble was staying, and he wasn't going to bother with his uniform since he wasn't on the clock. He grabbed a pair of jeans and a dark blue jumper, darting into the bathroom long enough to wet his hair down a little and brush his teeth. Less than ten minutes later he joined Harry, who was leaning against the window, gazing down at the street.

“Alright, let’s do this,” he said, startling Harry out of his thoughts.

“Great, let’s--I see you’re not dressing up for it,” Harry said, turning to take in his casual appearance.

“It isn't a date, Harry. Got to save a little something for Hermione.”

Harry snorted, rolling his eyes. “She’ll be so pleased to be the one you save your holeless socks for. Are you ready?”

Ron grabbed his cloak from where he had left it last night, raising his wand a little. “Right behind you.”

Both of them Apparated to the Ministry, just a short distance down the sidewalk in front. 

“You know where we’re supposed to go?” Ron asked, his eyes darting around to make sure there was no one he knew in sight.

Harry pushed open the door, walking across the atrium towards the lift. “Yeah. It’s the same floor as us, different wing.”

Ron grunted, wishing they wouldn't be heading so close to their coworkers. Luckily, when the lift stopped, Harry lead them towards the left, when their offices were towards the right. This hallway was quieter, and the doors were all closed. It took several twists and turns before Harry finally stopped and opened one of the doors, which lead into a small waiting room. 

“I’ll go check in, since I made the appointment,” Harry said.

Ron just nodded, finding a seat in a corner that gave him a line of sight on both the receptionist and the door. There was no one else waiting, he was happy to see, looking around. And although it was supposed to be a medical office (Mind Healers qualified, right?), it didn't feel like Mungo’s. Not that it was as nice as he’d imagine a private practice would be. No, it had the usual government quality about it; bland and serviceable, but probably wouldn't work quite right, if at all. Not exactly a promising thought, but typical. 

He crossed his left leg over his right, bobbed his ankle a few times, then switched legs, trying to get comfortable. He should at least be able to fake it, but his training was deserting him; he knew he was going to be on the spot with hundreds of questions lobbed his way, and he could already feel his defensiveness rising. Some stranger was going to give him the grand inquisition, then tell him how everything that was wrong was his fault. Bloody hell, he could go home and do that himself for free! With a squeak of the greenish grey plastic seat, he stood up. He didn't need this. He’d just Apparate away, and--

Hermione’s face flashed into his mind. The worry flashing in her brown eyes. The slight blush and hopeful smile that things might work out. Harry and George as well, both of them concerned, but supportive. He lowered his wand, his hand wavering. He couldn't let them down, could he? He couldn't run away. He had promised himself that he’d never run away from things again. But, maybe.....

“Ron? You alright, mate? It’s time for you to go back.”

Ron blinked, and licked his lips. “Uh, yeah. Yeah, I’m ready. Are you gonna stay around here and wait?”

Harry shook his head. “I promised Ginny I’d spend the day with her. But you know,” his eyes took on a decidedly shifty slant, “You could always drop by Hermione’s. I’m sure she’d like to hear how things go, and it’d be a good start to, you know.”

Ignoring the fact that he didn't think a therapy session was exactly a great second first date topic, Ron gave Harry a knowing look. “Ginny put you up to that, didn't she?”

“Guilty,” Harry grinned. “But I think she’s right. Unless you'd really rather me stay?”

“Nah,” Ron waved him away. If it was really bad, he’d prefer there be no witnesses. And if this wasn't complete hell, then maybe his sister’s second-hand suggestion wouldn't be so bad...... “You go ahead. This can't be too bad; I’ll probably survive.”

Harry clapped him on the shoulder. “That’s the spirit! I’ll see you later, then.”

Ron nodded, and, taking a deep breath, squared his shoulders and walked to the door.

 

 

Hermione had spent the morning pacing around her flat, nervously watching the passing of time on her various clocks. Each minute that ticked by made her increasingly anxious, working her up to the point that when her return path across the living room was interrupted by a sudden, solid object, she completely forgot her wand and began pounding it with her fists, screaming shrilly. 

“Hermione! Ow--stop--Ow! Hermione, stop, it’s me!” Harry yelped, ducking and batting her hands away. 

“Merlin, Harry! You nearly scared me to death!” She said, backing away with her hand over her chest. 

“You took a few years off of me, yourself!” Harry laughed, standing upright and straightening his glasses. “I just thought you might want me to stop by.”

“Of course! Sit down, and sorry for attacking you,” Hermione said, perching on the edge of the sofa and gesturing for Harry to join her.

“No problem. I should've known how you'd be feeling,” Harry smiled in understanding.

“So, did you see him?” She asked, trying to be casual, knowing her voice was pitched too high to be normal. “How was he? Did he say anything about yesterday? Did he seem like he was taking it well? You don't think he’s going to get mad if he thinks about it too long, do you? Do you suppose I was too pushy? Maybe I--oh.” She stuttered to a halt, noticing his raised eyebrows. “I’ll just, um, let you talk now.”

“Thanks, I was a little worried I was going to have to conjure a paper bag for you to breathe into,” Harry laughed.

She smacked his arm. “Oh, shut up and tell me what happened!”

Harry grew serious. “Alright. So. You know I saw him last night--George too. And both of figured it was best to let him go home and not pressure him for the rest of the night.”

She nodded, impatient for information she didn't already know.

“Well, I did some asking around, and this morning......this morning I went over and told him I’d made an appointment with the department Mind Healer. He’s there now.”

Hermione gasped, covering her mouth with both hands, her eyes going wide at Harry’s revelation. “You didn't! Oh my _God,_ Harry! Do you have any idea how negatively he could have reacted?”

“Yeah, which is why I told him from a safe distance,” Harry said, mostly joking. Ron hadn't yet hit anyone that hadn't started to get physical first, but Harry didn't want to be the one to break that streak.

“But you said he’s there? That’s good then,” Hermione said tentatively, “That means he was open to it, and is serious about getting help.”

“I wouldn't go quite that far,” Harry warned her, frowning. “I had to talk him into it. I think he had mostly convinced himself that he could handle this on his own.”

“Which we both know isn't the case,” she answered, throwing herself back on the sofa, shoulders slumping. “Now I’m even more worried. Therapy won't work if you go in resisting it! If he convinces himself that he doesn't need it, there’s no telling how much this could set him back; it might completely prevent him from getting better!”

Harry put an arm around her shoulders, giving her a slight squeeze. “Hey, don't think the worst! If he was really resisting, he wouldn't have gone at all. You know Ron, once he’s being stubborn, you can't _make_ him do something.”

“I--that’s true, I suppose.”

“Let’s just take it one thing at a time. Don't worry, we’ll help him get through this; things between you will get back to where they’re supposed to be.”

“I don't want him to get better for me. I don't want him to do this so I get something out of it,” Hermione said tightly, leaning away.

“I know that! You want him to be happy, just like the rest of us. But Hermione,” he said gently, “It’s not wrong to want that part back too, you know? And to be honest, I think it would be worse for Ron if you tried to bury that part. Ron.....Ron’s always wanted you to _want_ him, you know? If he thinks that you’re with him out of pity, or just to help him....”

“I see what you mean. I’m going to have to be careful of that; it’s the last impression I'd want to give him.”

“I’m still sort of surprised you finally told him. I was starting to think you were never going to.”

Hermione twined her fingers together, her eyes following the movement of each joint without really seeing. “I’ve wanted to. So much! But it was impossible at first. There at the end, he was taking almost everything I said as an invitation to argue, and I knew that he would deny it just to spite me. And what was I supposed to say? I wasn't even really sure at first that something was wrong, or if it was just me. I thought that maybe with some time and space, he’d even himself out. That I’d find a good time to bring it up. But......well, you know how much he avoided me while pretending not to. Months kept passing, and that good time just never seemed to come.”

“And it wasn't like you didn't have your own struggles,” Harry said softly.

Hermione froze, her stomach turning over. She wasn't going to think of that. Not today. She was irritated with Harry for even bringing it up; if it hadn't been for a momentary lapse on her part, no one would know.

“Anyway, about Ron. Do you think he’ll follow up on this? Because this is something that has to be his decision. Even if it is the right choice, we can't make it for him.”

“Frustrating as hell, isn't it? I think.....” Harry trailed off thoughtfully, “I think Ron being Ron, and the way he gets these days, that no matter what, he’s going to grumble about it. And I think that for the most part, when he does, we shouldn't argue with him too much. Just let him get it out of his system. Are you going to be able to do that?”

She snorted delicately. “With difficulty, but I think so. Of course, he might even decide that he doesn't want to work out things with me after all, in which case I doubt he’ll be confiding in me. But as long as he’s doing something to move forward.....”

“Don't say you won't care, because I don't believe it.”

Hermione shrugged, knowing that she couldn't hide it from Harry. “No, I’ll care. Just as I’ve cared since......since things ended. I want things to work between us; I’ve wanted that since I was......for a very long time. And those months that they did were some of the best of my life. I want that back.” She paused, her voice cracking. “But the priority is Ron’s well-being. I’m going to be working as hard as I can towards both, but if it comes down to one or the other, you know what I’ll choose.”

“Of course I do. That’s why you broke things off in the first place. But I really think that with the right kind of help, and all of us supporting him, that Ron can manage this. Auror Hitchens has had patients with more severe symptoms than Ron show improvement. I’m worried about Ron too, but I think the outlook is pretty good.”

“So this Auror Hitchens, he’s good?” She asked hopefully. 

“One of the best, which is why he’s gone off active duty and made that his full time position. Trust me, I wouldn't have sent Ron to just anyone.”

“I know you wouldn't. And having you do it was probably better for Ron than me spending ages going over the benefits of various Healers with him.”

“True. By the way, you mentioned earlier that he might not confide in you......well, I’m not sure how much he’ll actually say, but I think he’s planning on coming over here after he’s done.”

Quick as a scalded cat, she sprang from the sofa. “What? And you’re just now telling me? Oh, Merlin! I need to clean, and find something decent to wear!” She raised her hands to her head. “And my hair is everywhere!”

Harry laughed, standing as well, although much slower. “Hermione, relax! It’ll be a bit yet, and if I don't notice that there’s anything that could be considered messy around here, Ron won't. Your hair is fine--or would be if you’d stop running your fingers through it, trust me, I know--and Ron’s not exactly wearing dress robes himself.”

She busied her hands straightening some magazines on the coffee table. “I know I’m being ridiculous, but I still.....well, I still want to make a good impression.”

Gently, Harry gripped her shoulders and turned her to face him. “You don't need to make an impression. Whatever else is wrong with him, Ron’s still mad about you. I think that’s one of the reasons he’s kept his distance. And I’ve seen the way he’s looked at you in a ratty jumper and your hair still tangled from sleeping, so he’s not going to be disappointed with how you look right now.”

“I'm sure you're exaggerating, but thanks. I should probably just do something to relax until he gets here. Unless it goes poorly and he changes his mind. Then you can expect a small meltdown via Floo call later, worrying.”

Harry gave her a quick, one armed hug. “I wouldn't expect anything less. Let me know how it goes though, alright?”

She smiled at him. “Either way, you’ll be hearing from me. I know if I don't, I can expect Ginny over here before morning.”

“What can I say, I surround myself with women who have an insatiable thirst for knowledge. Take care, Hermione!”

Once he had Apparated away, the smile slowly slid from her face, and she dropped back onto her seat on the sofa. There was a hurricane of dizzy butterflies in her stomach, and she was terrified she was going to mess this up. Ron was one of the most important people in her life. As children, they had formed a bond that had seen them through a virtual hell on earth. It had been tested, strained, and battered, but never fully broken. And, along with that bond had developed romantic love. It had finally bloomed amidst the tragedy, but it had held such promise......

Stepping back from that had nearly broken her heart, but she had known that if they didn't, things might have been wrecked beyond repair. Part of her wished she had insisted he seek help in the beginning, but she knew that realistically, It wouldn't have helped. She had hoped that Ron would figure things out on his own, but maybe the only way he would ever have admitted there was a problem was to see the contrast between how things had been, and how they were now. 

He had managed to complete training and hold a job, for which she was incredibly proud of him, and she knew that he tried with his family. But he never seemed to notice the distance he kept between himself and everyone else, or how unpredictable and out of proportion his temper could be. He wasn't a danger to himself or anyone else, but it was bad enough that his relationships suffered for it. Even though they didn't see each other often, she knew he wasn't as happy as he could be--or even really happy at all. He always seemed tense, uncomfortable in his own skin. Yet it wasn't in the same way as when he was an insecure teenager. She hated it, because she knew that Ron had really started to come into his own that night that he rejoined them back at the camp, the skills she always knew he had coming more and more to the surface as his confidence solidified. And even though times had been rough, his ease, support, and humor had helped carry them through. She wanted that back for him. She wanted him to show interest and joy in things again. She wanted him to laugh more easily, to connect with the people he was close to.

And, yes, in the interest in being honest, she wanted the closeness they had shared back; the love and gentle warmth, the joy and the passion. If there was even a chance for that, she was willing to put her time and effort into regaining it. She knew, after long, careful consideration, that she was committed to this, to Ron. 

But for this to work, she knew Ron needed to make a commitment to himself.

 

 

Ron stepped through the door, at once reminded of a cross between Dumbledore’s old office and his dad’s shed. There was an organized sort of clutter everywhere; leatherbound books, intricate, expensive looking magical objects, and what could only be Muggle items woven throughout. It felt lived in, and Ron was put slightly at ease. Whoever spent their time in here was a _person._

“Ronald Weasley?”

At the sound of the low, slightly raspy voice, Ron jumped, embarrassed at missing the man seated behind the desk. Thankfully, he gave no indication he had noticed. He was a thin man, with wide shoulders and a squarish face; there were streaks of white through his dark hair, but he looked like he was in his mid forties. 

“Ah, yeah. Ron is fine,” he said, walking further into the room, stopping at the dark brown leather chair in front of the desk.

The other man stood, showing that he was a hair taller than Ron, and wearing an informal version of the Auror uniform.

“Alistair Hitchens,” he said, offering his hand, which gripped Ron’s solidly when he took it. “Please, have a seat and make yourself comfortable.”

“Thanks,” Ron answered, sitting down in the surprisingly comfortable chair. Or it would be comfortable if he didn't feel as if he wanted to leap up and run from the room.

Hitchens sat back down, folding his hands on top of his desk, giving him a slight smile. “Now, before we start, are there any questions you would like to ask?”

Ron shrugged, staring at a spot over Hitchens’ shoulder. “I dunno. I guess I figured you’d be the one asking questions.”

“Is that what you’d prefer?”

He shrugged again, fighting back a scowl. How was he supposed to know? Didn't the bloke know how to do his own job? “Yeah, I guess so.”

“Alright then; what made you decide to come in today?”

It was a simple enough question, but Ron found that he wasn't able to form the words to explain it. “I don't know.” He shook his head, irritated at himself. “I mean, I do, basically, but it wasn't exactly my idea to come.”

“Oh? Who’s was it?”

“My girlfriend--I think she’s my girlfriend--was my ex-girlfriend, then just my friend again, but we’re back on now--maybe. And my other best friend and one of my brothers.” He flushed a little at his rambling, and the way Hitchens raised his eyebrows a fraction as he stumbled along in trying to explain his relationship to Hermione.

“I see. And why did they think you needed to come?”

Ron dropped his eyes back to the desk. “They don't think I’m quite myself.”

“And what do you think? Do you agree with them?”

“I.....I guess if they think so, I thought I’d at least come in.....”

Hitchens regarded him thoughtfully. “But you do realize that you can leave at any time? It has to be your choice to be here. No one can make you come, and no one can make you stay. At any time, you’re perfectly free to walk out that door and not come back.”

For some reason, hearing that put him more at ease than he had been all day. He felt less trapped, and more like he was in control of the situation. 

“No, they.....they’re right. And I think I’ve known that, but I just.....didn't want them to be. I guess I’m just afraid to know how messed up I am.”

At that, Hitchens gave a short chuckle. “Ron, everyone is ‘messed up’ as you put it, to some extent or another. But just because you’re not on the right track, doesn’t mean the train has derailed completely.”

Ron released a humorless laugh. “Maybe not, but it sort of feels that way sometimes.”

“Why don't we start by having you tell me, as best you can, what seems to be wrong; everything you can think of.”

“Um. It’s hard to explain. I don't sleep much, because when I do, I either have nightmares, or sleepwalk. I haven't really connected with anyone since I started training, and even with my family and friends, I sort of.....pull away. I don't even enjoy things anymore, things that I used to be mad about. And I get angry. Over......really stupid things, things I don't even know why I got so upset over, now that I look back at some of them. I think that’s pretty much everything, but I’m not sure.”

“That sounds like a lot to deal with; probably very frustrating.”

“It is,” Ron admitted. “And I don't want to feel like that! I--I want to be able to be happy. And if I don't get it together, I’ll probably wash out as an Auror.”

“Learning to control those negative emotions would be to your best advantage, but you wouldn't be the first Auror to have that problem. And if you were to come up for review, the fact that you’re seeking treatment would be looked on favorably.” 

“Really?” Ron asked hopefully, then sank back down. “I don't think I want it to get that far, though.”

“No reason why it should,” Hitchens assured him. “After all, your records show that so far, you haven't been the one to start any of your physical altercations.”

Ron brightened again. “That’s true. I’ve finished a few fights, but I haven't started any.”

At that, Hitchens smirked knowingly. “Really? Because it says you excel in tactics, and provoking your opponent into making the first move is a very good tactic.”

“I never did that!” Ron protested, scowling. He tried to think back to the last one, then had to admit, “Well, not that I can remember. I don't always......details get fuzzy sometimes when I’m.....yeah. But still, I don't think I do that on purpose. Smart mouths kind of run in my family.”

“That’s entirely possible too,” Hitchens allowed, and Ron was happy that he wasn't going to argue the point.

“As for these periods of anger,” Hitchens continued, a concerned frown wrinkling his forehead, “Would you say they happened often? Can having one ruin an entire day? Do you feel as if they affect your decisions?”

A slight throbbing started at his temples, but Ron attempted to push it away. “I.....shite, I’m not really sure how often. I’ve never paid enough attention to keep track. But yeah, once it happens, it’s like the whole day goes to hell, and I think I probably say or do things I wouldn't otherwise, but I never seem to catch them in time to fix them.”

Hitchens nodded, then began to fish around in a drawer of his desk. “That has to be difficult. Sounds like it starts a cycle you can't seem to break out of. Something sets you off, you get mad and make a choice you’d rather not. That upsets you, and you get mad again. The whole thing wears you out, but you can't sleep right, and wake up all primed for something else to set you off.”

“Yes! Exactly!” Ron shouted, marveling at the way he had put it into words. It was a hopeless, draining sensation, one that pulled him back down every time he thought he was about to break away.

“What I’d like to do,” Hitchens said, pulling out a small item that Ron didn't recognize, “Is to get a feel for how severe that is. I realize it’s probably difficult for you to keep track, so take this, and keep it on your person for the next three days.”

Ron took what appeared to be a small, sealed vial, filled with tiny, round orbs. “What is it?” He asked, rattling them gently.

“It will keep track for you. Each time you get disproportionately angry, one of the balls will turn red. At the end of three days, it’ll tell us roughly how often that happens to you, and will give an indication of where to start treating it.”

“But what does that mean, exactly? Am I not allowed to get mad at things? What does ‘disproportionately angry’ even mean?”

“Of course not! It would be ridiculous, and futile, to force you to smother your feelings, or deny them. For instance, if someone broke into your home and robbed you, you would naturally be mad, right?”

“Sure, who wouldn't be?”

“And if a partner cheated on you, or you discovered one of your fellow Aurors was taking bribes to look the other way, you would also be quite angry.”

“That’d be an understatement, but yeah,” Ron asked, still not seeing where he was going with this. 

“Alright, now what if a stranger glances at you as you walk by? Or someone bought the last lunch special in the canteen? Or if a coworker asks how your weekend was? Would you think it would be reasonable to feel the same level of anger as the earlier examples--or even any anger at all?”

“Nooo,” Ron said slowly, starting to understand. Hermione, Harry, and George had all mentioned that he’d get mad at strange things that no one could figure out. If that kept up, his relationships would suffer. What if it got worse? Sometimes it felt like things were getting harder. He knew they were there for them, but there was only so much they could do if he pushed them away, right?

“And that’s what we would be monitoring,” Hitchens broke into his thoughts. “Anger in and of itself is a perfectly natural emotion. There’s nothing wrong with feeling it, or expressing it. We just need to work on the _how._ What do you think? Is this something you’re comfortable with?”

Ron thought about it. It wasn't like he was being watched or anything. And he wasn't even really going to have to put any kind of effort into this part--something he imagined would change in the future--and to be honest, he was sort of curious now. Surely in just three days, he probably wouldn't get more than five red balls!

“Yeah, I reckon that’s alright.”

“Good! Then take this, and stick it in your pocket--don't forget to switch it over when you change clothes--and I’ll see you Wednesday. Just let me know if you’d prefer the appointment before or after work, and I’ll owl you with the time.”

Taking the bottle, Ron gave it a final glance as he shifted in his chair to stuff it in his pocket. “Is.....is that it? We aren't going to do anything else today?”

“I think that’s pretty good for the first day, don't you? I expect it took a lot out of you just working up the nerve to come, and then opening up about things to a stranger......there might be more difficult steps in the future, but there’s no sense in rushing it.”

Now that he mentioned it, Ron _was_ tired; even his body felt heavy, although he hadn't done anything physical. But it was almost that good kind of tired. The kind you got after putting in a decent workout, but not enough that you felt like you’d keel over. If it was anything like training, that meant it was a smart point to stop. 

“Alright. I....thanks, for--well, this. I wasn't too sure this was going to work, and I’m still not, exactly, but I think I’d like to try.”

Hitchens smiled, the lines around his eyes crinkling. “I’m glad to hear you feel that way. Good luck until Wednesday, and feel free to owl if you feel you're having a problem.”

“Sure,” Ron nodded, standing up. “Oh, um, for Wednesday, I think I’d like it before work, if you don't mind? I usually try to get in around seven.”

“Then I’ll try to set things up for six-thirty, and send an owl to remind you.”

With a final nod, Ron left, leaving the office and slowly walking down the hall. He was, for the first time since waking, hopeful that things were going to go right for once. He was also nervous. He wasn't sure that it would, and he didn't know what he was going to do now. It felt a lot like trying out for the Quidditch team in fifth year. 

He paused, suddenly remembering that Harry had told him he should go see Hermione once his session was over. He considered the idea. Hermione would probably have fifty million questions, none of which he knew the answers to. His first instinct was to just go home, and stay in his flat for the rest of the day--maybe pick up some takeaway for dinner tonight. 

But.....while it was true that Hermione might have a lot of questions, she was also someone he could trust. If they were going to make things work between them, he was going to have to take that step eventually. He thought of yesterday, and how happy she had looked at the thought that might be possible, and how supportive she sounded. If it got to be too much, he could always leave. The more he thought about it, the more he nodded. He could do this. He _wanted_ to do this. Like looking through a fogged over glass, he could remember how good it was to have Hermione in his life. For the past two years, he thought that was over, that there was no chance of it ever being fixed. He was still upset with how things had ended, and he knew they had some rebuilding to do. That wouldn't get done if he spent all of his time in his flat. Hermione had reached out, even though she hadn't been sure what his reaction would be. Now he needed to do a little reaching himself, while he was still in the right frame of mind for it.

Decided, Ron envisioned a little visited flat, the number on the door polished bright. With a near soundless pop, he Apparated, holding tightly to the fleeting scrap of himself that he had found within him today.


	3. Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? (I'm Not Paranoid, Just Prepared)

**A.N. Hello everyone! Here we are at chapter 3, where Ron and Hermione start to take their first tentative steps forward; something I know several of you have been looking forward to! Thank you for all the lovely reviews and messages. They definitely help keep me going! I’ll try to get around to fixing the formatting on chapter one (Thanks so much for the heads up; for some reason, this site swings back and forth on what works and what doesn’t, in that regard). As for those curious about the allusion to something difficult in Hermione’s life, don’t worry! It will be addressed in the next chapter, so you won’t be hanging long. Also, just so people have a sense of the ‘flow’ of my writing, I want to mention that I try to base conversations, emotions, and reactions on reality. Which means that Emotions aren’t sorted into boxes that get experienced one by one; humor can pop up during moments of grief. Sadness or anger can occur during joyful occasions. Unexpected jolts of tenderness can catch you during a fight. They’re ever changing, and don’t always attune themselves to the appropriateness of a situation. And conversations.......sometimes you forget what you’ve verbalized and what you've actually said. Sometimes you rely a little too heavily on how you believe the other person will react. Nuances that are clear to you are lost on the other person, and past relationships (of any kind) shade how you interpret things. People very rarely say exactly what they mean, but that doesn't mean that they’re purposely withholding anything. It’s human, which is to say it can be jumbled and messy, even with the best of intentions.**

**Now for the mental health aspect! One of the frustrating aspects you deal with early on is coming to terms with the damage it’s done to your relationships. It can be hard to realize that, during moments of blinding stress and anger, you’ve said some fairly cruel things that you don’t actually mean to, or even believe. There’s patching up to do--reassuring people that you don’t actually hate them, think they’re worthless, wish they were dead, etc. It’s difficult to pull yourself out of the spiral of guilt and to make a conscious effort--and it throws you into a tailspin whenever the metal illness gets the best of you--and it will--and you slip up. And families, whoo! It’s a delicate balance there, because your support group is the easiest and closest thing for you to lash out at. Even at the best of times, nine out of ten people experience feeling singled out, like the entire family is focused on them and their shortcomings. And siblings will most definitely argue over which one that actually is! But the paranoia that often comes with mental illness increases this feeling. Everyone is watching you. Judging you. Talking about you behind your back. On the other side of this, family members are caught completely off guard when you start screaming at them for accusing you of being a thief, when they’ve casually asked if you’ve seen the remote.**

**So for this chapter........enjoy the awkward! (For those of you who suffer second hand embarrassment, I’m sorry)**

 

 

 

The neighborhood Ron landed in was nicer than his, but still far from upscale. It was poor yet respectable, safe enough to walk through at night. He emerged from behind Hermione’s building discretely, going through the front door and taking the stairs up to the fourth floor--and then up to the fifth, after embarrassing himself at the fact that he had forgotten which one. He stood outside of her door, trying to work up the nerve to knock. He raised his hands a few times, but only managed to brush his knuckles over the wood. Now that he was here, he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do, or say. Did he just go in and act like the last two years hadn't happened? Did he bring up the whole therapy mess, or just ignore it until she did? He didn't know, and that frightened him almost as much as the realization that he needed help. There had been a time when talking to Hermione came as easily as breathing; even with some of the thickest things came out of his mouth, he had always been comfortable in the fact that they would work it out. Now, that was gone; now it was like talking to a stranger that you bizarrely had a vast array of intimate knowledge about. In frustration, his hand landed heavily on the door. 

His eyes bugged out, and a strangled meep of distress emerged from his throat as he stared at the traitorous appendage. 

There was the sound of rapid, muffled footsteps approaching, and Ron quickly yanked his hand down to his side so Hermione wouldn't be met with his fist in her face; he might be having problems with his interpersonal relations, but he suspected that was pretty much a social ‘no.’

The door was opened with a surprising amount of force, bringing him face to face with Hermione, who was smiling at him brightly. She was wearing jeans and a fuzzy, striped jumper, and he would almost think she was completely casual, except for the fact that he could tell she had attempted to tame her hair. It looked like she had given up part way through, and had just pushed it back with a hair band, and he wondered if it had been for him, or if she was going somewhere.

“Ron! Come in!” She said, her voice just a touch too loud, letting him know she was as nervous as he was. 

“Are you sure? I don't want to bother you if you’re busy with something,” he said, suddenly hesitant. Now that he was so aware of why they broke up, and how things weren't quite right with him, he was afraid he was going to do something to ruin everything again. 

“No! I mean--I’m not busy at all, so please, come inside!”

“Alright,” he said, stepping inside, looking around with interest. 

He hadn't been over all that much, and the few times he had, he hadn't really paid attention. It wasn't a large flat, but it was comfortable. Hermione had done it in shades of brown, which might be boring, except that she had added touches of deep red and metallic bronze, which gave the room a warm feeling. There were books on nearly available shelf, interspersed with knick-knacks here and there. As he passed the fireplace, his eye was caught by the clusters of pictures, some magical, some not. There were shots of her parents, his family, and several people they went to school with, but Ron couldn't help but notice that he was in quite a few of them. Several were group pictures with Harry, but there were a few that were just him and Hermione. One looked like it had been taken in fifth or sixth year, both of them laughing and throwing leaves at each other. He smiled a little, wondering how they had missed that the other had been shamelessly flirting. One drew his attention more, sitting forward in a more prominent position. It was a more recent one, taken before she had left for her seventh year. They were at the Burrow, sitting downstairs on one of the sofas. They had been trying to spend as much time together as they could, and had fallen asleep; they were leaning against each other, heads bumped together and a thin blanket draped across them. 

“Who took this one?” He asked, never having seen it before, and trying to think who would have been awake at the time that wouldn't have taken the mickey out of them for it.

“Your mum,” she said, surprising him.

“Mum? Seriously? I figured she’d be more likely to have a fit and separate us.”

“She wasn't that bad, Ron. Besides, I doubt she thought we’d be getting up to anything right there in the sitting room.”

“Huh. Surprisingly naive of her,” he said dryly, giving her a crooked smile. 

She laughed, which made him happy; as soon as the words had left his mouth, he’d been worried that she might be uncomfortable at the reference that they’d ever.....well, had sex, or might think he was expecting that to pick right up, so he was glad to see she was taking it as the joke it was meant to be. For just a few moments, things between them were normal.

“Ah, would you like a drink? Pumpkin juice? Butterbeer? Water?” She asked, going back to that almost formal nervousness.

“Um, sure, if it isn't too much trouble. Butterbeer would be good,” he answered, turning away from the pictures, wondering what to do with himself.

“Alright. Have a seat, and I’ll go grab some,” Hermione said, moving around the sofa and heading for the kitchen.

Ron sat down in Hermione’s clean, orderly living room and watched her walk away, suddenly very aware of his stubble, that he needed his hair trimmed, that his jeans were about one day past the acceptable ‘no one knows I’ve worn these multiple times’ period, and the cuff on the right sleeve of his jumper had loose threads. Part of him was kicking himself for not putting a little more effort in, but it wasn't as if Hermione hadn't seen him in a worse state. After all, back when they were searching for Horcruxes, they hadn't had much time or energy to worry about cleaning their clothes, and at one point his hair had been longer than Bill’s. Then again, he didn't have the excuse of being on the run today. At least he hadn't shown up like this for a date. It wasn't a date, was it? They were just talking. Alone. For the first time in.....too long. Shite. Alright, it wasn't a date, but it wasn't just a casual drop in, either. He began to sweat a little. What if she thought he wasn't taking this seriously? What if she thought it was an intentional I-don’t-care-what-you-think jab? 

“Ron?”

“Ah! Yeah?” He asked, jumping as he twisted around to face her.

“Sorry! I just wanted to say, I wasn't sure if you'd eaten yet today, so I brought you some biscuits.”

Hermione handed him one of the bottles she had been carrying, and then a packet of biscuits she had tucked under the other arm. He looked down, expecting to find the fruity, grainy biscuits that she usually had on hand, to be surprised to find the chocolatey ones he preferred. 

“You don't like this kind,” he said, instantly feeling stupid for pointing it out. 

“No, but I keep them handy for guests,” she said, sitting on the opposite corner of the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her.

Briefly, Ron wondered just who these guests were. Then he looked down at that packet to open it, and noticed two things. One, the sell by date was fairly far off. Two, the little promotional coupon type thing splashed across the front was advertised as being good since yesterday. Which meant, if his keen, Auror level skills of deductive reasoning were correct, she most likely bought these with him in mind. Oddly pleased, he took a bite, surprised to realize he hadn't had one of these in.....weeks? Months? Too damn long.

“Enjoying that biscuit, Ron?” Hermione asked, her eyes raised in amusement.

It took him a moment before the fact that he was moaning struck him. Swallowing hastily, he felt his ears turning red as he reached for his drink.

“‘S’good. You were right, I hadn't eaten yet.”

“Have as many as you like; it’s still several hours to lunch.”

He ate two more before he realized she wasn't going to say anything. She wanted to though, he could tell. Hermione always had this tight, nervous energy that seemed to make her vibrate when she had a question she wanted answered. It was taking a lot for her to hold it in, probably trying to make him feel comfortable. It was sort of having the opposite effect, but he appreciated the effort, and decided to put her out of her misery.

“Thanks. So, weren't you going to ask how my session went today?”

She gave a perceptible start, her eyes darting from side to side before meeting his. “Your.....I--no, why?” 

He hid a smirk; Hermione could lie as cool as you please when it was For the Good of the World, but she couldn’t lie to save her life if she thought it was unethical. It was something he had known for a long time but had somehow forgotten; something he’d always found sort of endearing. That, and of course the rare opportunity to be the one to know what was going on while Hermione was unsure of herself. 

“Come off it, Hermione! I’d be willing to bet a month’s salary and a new broom that Harry was over here before me, filling you in--if he didn't involve you last night.”

She was shaking her head vigorously. “No! Well, I mean, yes, he _was_ here today, but I had no idea what he had done until it was over. To be honest, I'm not sure I would've gone along with it. I would have been too worried you would have thought we were pushing.”

“I was hacked off some, at first,” he admitted, rolling his bottle between his palms. “I was thinking of.....working my way up to it, you know?” At her look, he laughed. “Alright, maybe more like I was working my way out of it. But it wasn't as bad as I thought it would be, so Harry doesn't have to go into hiding.”

“Really? It went alright, then?” She asked, perking up. 

Ron could almost swear her hand twitched as if she wanted to raise it to ask a question. 

“Yeah. I mean, I thought it was going to be some Percy-at-his-worst type, asking a bunch of questions I didn't want to answer, and telling me everything I was doing was wrong. But he was....alright, you know? A regular bloke. He seemed to really get what was going on inside my head--or at least, a general idea--and he didn't push to try to fix me in one day.”

“Do you think he’s going to be able to help?”

He shrugged, peeling at the Butterbeer label. “Dunno. He seems to think so, and I guess he’d be the best one to know. He’ll know better Wednesday, I guess.”

Hermione frowned in confusion. “Really? How?”

“Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that, didn't I? So, you know, um, how my temper can get kind of.....”

She nodded in understanding. “More than is normal for you? Yes.”

“He said he wanted to sort of monitor that, to see how severe it actually was,” Ron continued, shifting to one hip so he could dig in his pocket, pulling out the vial. “And he gave me this to keep track. I just have to have it somewhere on me, and every time my temper is too much, one of these turns red. I’ll be using it until Wednesday. Unless he asks me to wear it longer then, I guess.”

“That’s fascinating!” Hermione said, leaning forward for a better look, her eyes lighting up as she puzzled over how it worked, before her expression grew worried and she looked up to him. “Should you be here, then? Not that I don't want you to be! Just, I don't want anything I do to throw it off, and I know that until yesterday, we......haven't really gotten along so well.”

His mouth felt dry, so he took a quick drink before answering. “For one thing, it’d probably defeat the purpose if I just avoided anything that _might_ upset me. Besides, even though things....haven't been so great between us, don't think that you’re something that makes me mad, alright?” He frowned. “You’ve always made me the happiest, too.”

Hermione sat back in her original position as he shoved the vial back into his pocket. “As long as you’re sure. Do you think three days is enough?”

Thinking about it, he sighed. “Not too sure. I guess this means I should try to stay out more, instead of just going straight home from work.”

“Exposing yourself to different situations might help,” she agreed, before they lapsed into momentary silence.

Ron suddenly remembered something he had wanted to ask her. “Hermione? What are we telling people? About us. Because I kind of already told Harry and George that were were--that we’re trying again. I couldn't remember if you’d told them or not, but if you didn't want anyone to know--” His stomach clenched at the thought that she might want to hide things, that she might be ashamed to be with him while he was like this.

“Why would I want to hide it?” She asked, sounding genuinely confused. “It was my idea, wasn't it? Not that the details are anyone else’s business.”

Ron nodded, letting out a long breath through the corners of his lips. That was one thing off his mind. 

“Alright. My next question is......what do we do now? I know we can't just pick right up where we left off, but it feels sort of ridiculous to go all the way back to the beginning like we haven't known each other forever, isn't it?”

Hermione went to take a drink, noticed her bottle was empty, and carefully placed it on a coaster on the coffee table. “I suppose we should get that straight before going any further. You’re right, neither of those suggestions will work. We can't pretend like nothing happened and go back to before, but we also have too much history to act like this is the first time. I think maybe we should try for something in the middle.”

“And that would be?” Ron asked, needing something more definite. 

“Sorry, it’s hard to put into words,” Hermione said, after a pause to think. “I just mean, we can skip the whole, ‘dating to impress’ part. We know each other well enough we don't need to make an impression. But I still think we should spend time becoming more comfortable with each other, since we haven't been doing very well in that department.”

Ron nodded. “I miss that. Even in the beginning when I was worried about messing things up, and what I was supposed to do, it wasn't this level of awkward.”

“Also.....” Hermione looked down, blushing faintly. “I don't think we should have sex for awhile. I don't want that to come across as--”

“No, I get it, really. It’s a little too much, too soon. We can get there when we get there.” 

He wondered if he should confess that he wasn't as......keen as usual on the subject, but he decided not to. No point in bringing up one more thing that was wrong with him before he had to. He knew it was the right answer when she gave him the first smile he had seen from her that wasn't tinged with nervousness. 

“You did say that we were going to, you know, see each other exclusively, right?” He asked, wanting to be very sure on that part. It would be hard enough for him at his best if she wanted otherwise, and he thought if that was the case, they’d be better off not dating at all, and simply remaining friends.

“Yes, of course!” She answered, one hand shooting forward to rest on his arm, before withdrawing slightly. “That is, unless you’d prefer.....”

“No! No. Merlin Hermione, I haven't changed _that_ much! I’d probably make a complete prat out of myself. I just wanted to make sure.”

She nodded thoughtfully. “I don't think I’d manage too well either, to tell the truth. I know it works for a lot of people, but it wouldn't for me. At least, not once I was as sure of my feelings as I am now.”

They looked at each other, and Ron could feel, in that moment, the crackle between them from their old connection. It was exciting, and he wanted it, but it was also powerfully overwhelming. 

“Me too,” he answered quickly, his voice hoarse. He took a drink as an excuse to break eye contact, feeling some of the tension building within him dissipate as the moment was lost. 

Feeling slightly guilty, he searched for something to say next, when there was a scratching sound from one of the windows behind him. Hermione looked over his shoulder and stood up, trotting past him to let in the large, slightly clumsy brown form of his family’s owl, Cyril. Hermione untied the letter from his leg, setting him on the stand she apparently kept for visiting owls, and fed him two small treats. She made to open the letter, then paused, turning back to him.

“Ron, this just came for you. I think it’s from your mum,” she said, handing him the letter before sitting down. 

Reluctantly, Ron took the letter, debating on whether or not he could get away with waiting until he got home to open it. What was she doing, tracking him down here? But then an icy sensation traveled up his spine; what if something was wrong? What if something had happened to someone? With slightly shaking hands, he tore into the envelope, his eyes quickly scanning over the short message before he crumpled it up, his jaw clenching.

“Is something wrong?” Hermione asked, having noticed the expression on his face. 

“Just Mum being her usual, interfering self. She’s making dinner for the family tonight, and she wanted me to bring _you.”_

“Oh. Well, I can make an excuse, so she won't be able to say anything,” Hermione said, voice stiffer than it had been before.

Ron looked up from where he had been glaring at the parchment in his lap, and knew that he’d hurt her. 

“Hermione, it’s not--bloody hell, I want you to go! I was going to ask you the next time, actually. But I know Mum’ll be watching us the way an owl watches the treat box, and making little comments--I’m sorry.”

She searched his eyes for several moments before giving a slight nod and sitting down. “Do you really _want_ me to go? Be honest.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, angry at himself for making a mess of this already. “I really do, I swear. I just....I had sort of wanted us to have a little time to get used to everything before we added my family into the mix. My loud, nosy, opinionated family,” he added, his lips turning up a little at the corners to let her know he was partially joking. 

“Well, you knew it was bound to happen sooner rather than later,” she said lightly. “The longer we wait, the worse it would get. I don't mind if you don't want to, though. And if we do, I can make an excuse why I need to leave early, and your mum would expect you to see me home.”

He gave her a lopsided smile. “Yeah, I want you to come. We might as well get a good meal out of it, right?”

She tossed her head back with a laugh. “Ron, she won't withhold food from you if you show up without me!”

He assumed a pitiable expression. “Don't be so sure; Mum’s likely to put back the good pudding and just give me biscuits if I don't.”

With an affectionate eye roll, Hermione said, “We can't have that, can we? For the sake of your stomach, I’ll come.”

“Sorted. So, what did you want to do until then? I had sort of hoped we could spend the day together.”

Her grin softened into a pleased smile. “That would be lovely--oh no!” She sat up, her face crumpling. “I forgot, I needed to finish up a few papers for work--I meant to last night, but with everything that happened, I couldn't focus on anything. They’re due tomorrow, and if I’m going out tonight.....”

“That’s alright,” Ron said, realizing just how much he actually wanted to prolong their time together. “You can go ahead. It’s not like I never sat around while you revised before, is it? Even if we don't talk, I think....I think it’d be nice just to be together.”

He wished she didn't look so surprised by his suggestion, although to be fair, sweet and romantic was a far cry from the brittle politeness he’d been giving her for the past two years. Still, he couldn't help being disheartened. How had he gotten to this point without even realizing it? 

“Oh! That sounds--of course, I’d love it if you wanted to--wait a minute, let me get something so you don't have to just sit there!”

Before he could tell her that he would be fine, since he was used to that anyway, she had leaped up from the couch and darted out of the room, where he could hear her rummaging around. After some scuffling and muttering, she returned, carrying a briefcase, brow furrowed.

“Where did I.....of course!” She said triumphantly, face clearing. She dumped the briefcase on the coffee table, and went over to a basket by the armchair, which contained a small stack of magazines. Flipping through them, she pulled out two, coming over to hold them out to him.

“I know they’re about a month old,” she said apologetically, “But Ginny left them here one day, and never picked them up.”

He took the issues of Quidditch Monthly, hiding his startlement when he realized he didn't even know the player on one cover. “No, it’s perfect. I missed these,” he said as she sat down. 

For the next few hours, both of them were engrossed in their separate interests, or at least appeared to be. Ron knew that he spent at least half the time watching Hermione, and the familiar way her lips would move silently as she tried to commit key points to memory, and the way her hair bounced when she shook her head if something wasn't working out satisfactorily. 

They broke briefly for lunch, when Ron Apparated out to pick up some sandwiches for them. Hermione said she was almost done, so he had picked up one of the magazines again, determined to focus on at least one article long enough for it to make sense. 

The next thing he knew, he was surfacing from a warm, black fog; he was more comfortable than he could ever remember being in this bed in his crummy flat. It felt a bit cramped, though. Had he taken a nap in his old room at the Burrow? So warm.......deciding to sleep while it actually felt nice for once, he turned to burrow his face into the pillow, only for it to squeak and jerk away. His eyes flew open, and he was mortified to find himself lying in Hermione’s lap, his long nose poking into her stomach. With a yelp, he tried to push himself into a sitting position, but only managed to fall off of the sofa entirely, his ears feeling hot enough to singe anything with which they came into contact. His head slammed against the edge of the coffee table with a crack, resulting in a stream of colorful curse words flowing from his mouth. 

“Ron! Ohmygod, are you alright?” She shrieked, a book falling to the floor beside him as she leaned over to try to help him up. 

Embarrassed and in some amount of pain, he looked everywhere but at her as he heaved himself back up onto the sofa. “Yeah, m’okay. What was I.....how did I get......” he gestured at her lap, his blush intensifying. 

“You don't remember? You were sort of dozing off, and started out on my shoulder. After a little while, it seemed like you were uncomfortable and stretched out--as much as you could--and sort of....nested.”

“Bloody hell......Hermione, I’m sorry! I didn't mean to--” he gestured at her lap again, not sure what to say. 

 

“Didn't mean to what? You fell asleep, Ron. That’s hardly sexual! Besides, I thought it was nice, that you felt comfortable enough to do that.” 

“Really? I guess. I just didn't want you to think that I was.....you know.”

She gave him an amused smile. “You never snored while trying to proposition me before, so unless that’s something new you're trying......Did it bother you?”

He returned her smile as his face dropped back to its regular temperature. “Nah. I’m just not used to sleeping that deep, and not knowing where I am when I wake up.”

Hermione frowned at that. “You have trouble sleeping?”

“Yeah, but I’ve learned to deal with it. I just don't sleep much if I can help it.”

“Ron, that’s not healthy!” She scolded, sounding quite like her old self.

“I know, I know,” he rolled his eyes. “I hear that enough from the Healer at checkups. How long was I out, anyway?”

His change of subject earned him a look that meant that she was filing what he had said away for future use. 

“Long enough that we should probably be heading to the Burrow. After you fix your hair, or you really will give your mum ideas.”

After she had pointed the way to the bathroom, Ron saw what she meant; his hair looked like he’d spent the afternoon having a good shag, and if his mum saw it, she’d likely start knitting little booties right there.

Probably in maroon. 

Irritably, he damped it down with water from the sink, scowling at his reflection. Why did he always have to be the one to worry his family was going to be up in his business? Why couldn't his family focus on Percy and his new girlfriend? Or the jealous secondstring Chaser that had it out for Ginny? But no, it was going to be one thing and another about him and Hermione, he could hear it now. His mum dropping hints like bricks, George and Ginny teasing him every chance they got. And everyone else pretending they weren't sitting there with their ears hanging out to pick up every word. 

He jerked the faucet off, his hand almost shaking too much to grip it. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck! Looking up, he caught a glimpse of his reflection. His lips were pulled back in a snarl, and his face was flushed red. Why was he.....fuck. With dread, he reached into his pocket and fished out the vial. Sure enough, when he shook it he saw that one of the little white balls was now bright red. He closed his eyes, trying to get a grip. One. It was just one. He could make it. Hermione even said she’d get them out of their early. Hermione! Shite, he’d been in here too long. 

When he returned to the living room, he found she had put on her shoes, and pinned the sides of her hair back in a clip. 

“Is it alright if we Apparate? I still don't like to show up by Floo unless it’s really necessary.”

Ron shrugged. “That’s fine with me; I don't really enjoy the way everyone stops to look at you when you Floo, anyway. Um, Hermione?”

She picked up a small purse that had been lying on the couch, and looked at him. “Yes?”

“Please don't--I mean....well, I’m sorry if my family says anything tonight to make you feel.....”

“Ron, they aren't going to upset me. I know they can get a little nosy sometimes, but it’s only because they care. I’m sure it won't be that bad.”

He groaned. “Hasn't someone said that right before any disaster ever?”

She put her hands on her hips, cocking an eyebrow at him. “Are you telling me that one of the most well trained, top Aurors in the department, is afraid of a middle aged woman in a pinny?”

“When that woman’s my mum, then yeah,” he said dryly. “Auror training doesn't cover the really dangerous stuff. And I’m not a piece of toast, so you don't have to butter me so thick.”

“It worked though, didn't it?”

He felt his lips twitch, but wasn't willing to admit she was right. Instead, he held out his hand for hers. “Let’s go. I’ll try to make it through pudding, but if it gets to be too much, I’ll give you the signal.”

“What’s the signal?” She asked, taking his hand.

“I’ll fall to the ground and play dead.”

“I like it. It’s subtle.”

 

 

They arrived in the yard, Ron mentally comparing it to the day before. Again, he was reluctant to go in, but at the same time, standing here, still holding hands with Hermione, it briefly felt like old times. It was almost like the last two years had never happened, and they were coming over for a regular visit, then would go home to their own flat. But they had happened, he reminded himself as they crossed the yard. All the things he had hoped would happen with Hermione hadn't, and it wasn't even guaranteed that they would now. At the end of the night, they would go to their separate flats, and he wasn't even sure of when they would be together again after that. For once, he didn't want to go home. Not alone, at any rate. Not after spending the day with Hermione, and being reminded what it was like to share a space with another person, someone you were comfortable enough to do nothing with. But she was still giving him a chance, wasn't she? They could get back on track. He didn't have to go home alone forever. 

“Hermione.....” he began, stopping them from going inside. “I....I just wanted you to know.....” he couldn't go on, not knowing exactly what he wanted to say, wishing there was some way to let her know how he felt.

“What is it?” She asked, looking up at him. When he shook his head, she raised the hand that wasn't holding his to place it on his cheek. “Is something wrong? Do we need to leave?”

We. She had said we. How long had it been since it had felt like someone was on his side--just with _him?_

“No. I just.....thanks. For everything.”

She cocked her head to the side. “But I haven't done anything.”

“For, you know, being here. With me,” he tried to clarify.

“I'm where I want to be,” she answered, her eyes holding a tenderness that reminded him of the early days after the war, holding each other in his room.

They drew him in, and he found himself leaning forward, giving in to the sudden urge to kiss her. He was close enough for her breath to warm the cold skin of his face, when behind her, the door opened, and he jerked away.

“Ron, Hermione! I thought someone had arrived. Neither of you are wearing cloaks, and it’s cold enough out here to freeze! Get inside before you catch your death, dears.”

“Hello, Mrs. Weasley. Thanks so much for the invitation,” Hermione said politely, ignoring Ron’s muted grumbling.

“You know you’re always welcome,” his mum said, stepping back for them to come in. 

Ron’s fleeting sense of peace screeched to a halt as he followed Hermione inside, physically bracing himself. He didn't know when the first comment was going to come, or who it’d be from, but he knew it was coming. 

“Everyone else is in the living room if you want to join them; dinner will still be a bit.”

Ron thought he was going to be able to make his escape, until she turned back and beckoned to him. 

“Ron, can I see you in the kitchen please?”

He shot Hermione a pleading look, but she shrugged, her face saying there was nothing she could do. Resigned, he turned towards the kitchen.

“Yeah? What is it you wanted?” He asked, once they were alone. She was probably going to give him some sort of lecture.

She checked the stove, where a spoon had been charmed to stir the gravy to keep it from scorching. Satisfied, she looked back at him, her face set in that no nonsense expression.

“Ron, I didn't want to bring this up....”

Then don't, he mentally answered, biting his lip so it didn't slip out.

“I really do appreciate your idea of a gift for your father--I really do! And I know that’s already going to take up a good deal of your time and energy......but could you please find some way to make sure it stays more organized? Your father has a horrible habit of stacking things up far too high, and I just know one of these days I’m going to go out there to find that the whole mess has collapsed on top of him.”

Ron felt his mouth open and close slightly, unprepared for the direction that had taken. It took him a few minutes to make the mental switch and process her question. 

“Um, sure, I think I could do that. There’s probably a Charm or something for that. If I can't figure it out, I can always ask Hermione.” He nearly kicked himself for mentioning her, giving his mum an opening. “If that’s all, I’ll just go back--”

“Wait!” She reached out, grabbing his arm before he could turn away.

He looked over his shoulder, considering pulling away. Then again, now would be the perfect time to get this over with, since no one else was around.

“What?”

“I know you probably don't want to talk about this,”

Understatement.

“But I just want you to know, your father and I are proud of you. You’ve never been one to say when you need help, and we know it’s a big step. We just want you to know you can come to us if we can help in any way, alright?”

Oh. Not about Hermione, then. That was......good. But he really didn't want to talk about it. It felt like that was all he’d talked about for more than a day. The offer was nice, though.

“Thanks, Mum,” he tried to smile, knowing it came out slightly weak. “I will, don't worry.”

She didn't look quite like she believed him, but she returned his smile, and patted the arm she had been holding. “Good, then. You go on and go sit with the others, tell them the food should be ready soon.”

He nodded, leaving the kitchen before she could add anything else. She was probably trying to lull him into a false sense of security. In the other room, he was surprised to find that it was as full as last night, the only difference being that Teddy wasn't here, and Angelina was. Hermione was sitting at one end of one of the sofas, Ginny perched on the arm beside her as they talked. Harry was sprawled on a large, ugly cushion at their feet, looking half asleep. Ron went over to join them, leaving several inches between them to try to deflect any comments. 

“You can sit closer, Ron. I don't think Hermione’s developed a biting habit,” George drawled from the other sofa, where he was sitting with an arm slung around Angelina.

 

Why hadn't he just let George smother under all those boxes in the stockroom explosion?

“Say the word, Ron, and I’ll develop a biting habit for this lunkhead here,” ANgelina said, elbowing George not-so-gently in the ribs. 

He shot Angelina a grateful smile, before turning a glare on George, tempered only by the sensation of Hermione reaching over and taking his hand.

“Hey, Ron? Do you think you can bring your notes in on the Thurston file? I don't think I’ve added them to mine since last week or so,” Harry said, trying to diffuse the situation.

“Hm? Oh, yeah. I don't think There’ll be much to add. Slick bastard hasn't given us much to work with.”

“Ron.....takes notes?” Detailed notes?” Hermione asked disbelievingly, looking back and forth between him and Harry.

“Of course I do!” He said defensively. “Don't I, Harry?”

“He does,” Harry agreed. Horrible handwriting, and half of them are jotted down on things like napkins and takeaway menus, but the content is fantastic.”

Hermione beamed at him. “See? And think of all the years where you tried to get me to stop nagging, saying you’d never need to after school!”

“The difference being, I’m actually interested in what I’m writing about now,” he said, before leaning down towards Harry. “Merlin, if she’s like this over notes, better not tell her I read, too!”

“She might not be too impressed, if your choice in reading material hasn't changed since you were fourteen,” Bill said, from where he was sitting on the loveseat with Fleur. 

Ron felt his ears go read. It was just the once! ........Alright, maybe more than once, but not like Bill was making out!

“As eef they probably didn't belong to you in the first place!” Fleur snorted, causing Bill to splutter. 

“That’s low, Fleur!” Bill protested, although his red ears, visible with his hair pulled back, gave him away.

“Daddy is a hypocrite, is he not?” Fleur said in a sing-song voice to Victoire. 

“Dada hippo!”

Everyone laughed, but Ron felt his chest grow tight. The subject might have been changed again, but it was only a matter of time before someone brought it back to him and Hermione. Some sort of innuendo, or a push for them to practically get married. He nearly fell off the sofa when his mum called them in for dinner, uncharacteristically hanging back as everyone rushed to the kitchen to find their seats. He followed just behind the throng, surreptitiously removing his hand from Hermione’s since he could tell it was starting to sweat. He squeezed into a chair between her and Angelina, mechanically passing dishes and scooping food onto his plate. It was hot in here, and he felt trapped. Everyone was talking at once, and he wasn't sure what they were saying; he kept trying to focus on them all at once, sure that one of them would start talking about him just as soon as he shifted his attention. Minute by minute, pressure built up within him, clogging his throat so that he could no longer swallow. He was relieved when it looked like everyone else was done; that meant he just had to make it through pudding, and maybe a few minutes back in the living room before they could leave. 

After the dishes had been sent to the kitchen, his mum stood up, her eyes twinkling as she smiled secretively at everyone. “Before I bring out the cake, I think a certain couple has something they’d like to share with the rest of us!” She announced, her voice lilting as if she couldn't contain her excitement.

And that was it. Suddenly, Ron had had enough. It wasn't easy getting back together with Hermione with everything they were trying to sort through, and now he was expected to make it some....some big public _thing?_

He shot to his feet, his chair falling to the floor with a loud clatter behind him. He leaned forward, banging his fist onto the table, glaring around at the shocked faces of his family. 

“Alright! Fine! Hermione and me are giving it another go. Is that what you wanted to hear? Can't just let it go, can you? You need it spelled out in bloody flashing letters! Go on, make your comments as if it’s any of your business! Shove advice down our throats! Just get it all out of the way already!”

No one spoke, frozen in their previous positions. The only movement was Hermione tugging at his sleeve, but he ignored it. “Well? Doesn't anyone have anything to say? Merlin knows you do whenever I want you to shut up!”

Bill took a deep breath, his face an indecipherable mask as he deliberately ignored Ron. “Well, we were actually thinking of waiting another week to tell everyone, but Mum hates keeping a secret. Victoire is going to be a big sister!”

 

Loud cheers and congratulations erupted, a frenzied atmosphere instantly replacing the earlier stillness. Except for Ron. All of the energy and anger drained from him, leaving him filled with embarrassment. He took a step back from the table, then another. Before he could humiliate himself further, he had left the kitchen and sprinted upstairs to his old room, throwing himself down on the bed, the old springs groaning and squeaking beneath him. He put his hands over his face, rubbing hard at his eyes. 

What the fuck had he just done? Besides make a complete arse of himself, and ruin a moment that should've been special. What was wrong with him? Not everything was about him! In a family this big, it was pretty much impossible for focus to stay on one person for very long. And even if it had been, so what? When had he lost his ability to just roll his eyes, make a sarcastic crack, and move on? At one point, something like that would've caused mild irritation at the worst. He didn't even have to look to know that he had at least one more red ball in the vial. He felt curiously sick; disgusted with himself, out of control, no idea what to do about it. He was going to have to apologize to Bill and Fleur, although now probably wasn't the best time. 

The door to his room opened, and Ron twisted to see who it was, almost moaning. Shite! Hermione! He’d done all of that in front of her. She must think he was ready for his own private suite at St. Mungo’s. 

“If you’ve come up here to chuck me, I completely understand,” he said, closing his eyes again.

He wasn't sulking about it. He really meant it; he was a mess, and not everyone wanted to add that onto the usual difficulties of a relationship.

The mattress sank further as she sat down beside him, her fingers threading through his hair. “After only one day? Give me some credit for resiliency,” she said lightly. 

He moved his hands, staring up at her dismally. “Seriously, Hermione. After tonight, it’s pretty clear I’m fucked up. I’m not sure when or even _if_ I’ll get better, I’ll probably pull another embarrassing stunt like this at some point, and......it’s a lot to deal with. There’s no reason you have to put yourself through that.”

“Aside from the fact that I love you and want to, and that it’s ultimately my choice to make?” Hermione asked archly, before softening her voice. “Ron, what are you going to do about tonight?”

“Not much else I can do, is there?” He said with a sigh. “I cocked up what should've been a special night. Obviously, once I feel like I can actually talk to people without making it worse, I need to go around and apologize to everyone. I’d do it now, but the thought of going back in and facing them all at once has me practically lying here in a puddle of sweat, and I’m afraid I’d end up putting my foot in it.”

Hermione shifted over him, her hair blocking out the light from the bedside lamp. “And that’s my point! You’re not trying to make excuses. You feel badly, and you’re going to do what you can to make it right. I know things aren't going to be easy, But it isn't as if you aren't trying. Don't be so quick to give up on yourself.”

Ron didn't really see why it was such a big deal. It didn't change the fact that he’d messed up. Self loathing bubbled within him, and the thought of going home and sleeping for a month, where no one could be bothered by him, was appealing. He rolled his head a little, and found it resting against Hermione’s thigh, warmth seeping through her jeans to his cheek. She was still rhythmically stroking his hair, and the soothing motion combined with her earlier words gave him a lifeline of hope to hold onto. It wasn't enough to pull him out completely, but it just managed to keep him from giving up. 

“I told them we would probably Apparate from up here, and not to worry,” she continued. “I didn't think you’d want to go back down.”

Not only the brightest witch of her age, but a bleeding saint, he thought gratefully. 

“D’you mind doing it? I think I might Splinch myself. I can Floo home from yours, if that’s alright.”

“Of course. You ready?”

He sat up, missing the contact as her hand fell away. “Yeah, thanks.”

With a lurching sensation, they ended up back at Hermione’s.

“I’m sorry the day went to shite there at the end,” he apologized, wishing he could’ve held it together. She probably wouldn't want to see him for awhile after this, and who could blame her?

She surprised him with a hug, her arms tight around his waist. “It was a bad moment out of an otherwise really good day. Thank you for coming over; I.....I was really happy to spend time with you.”

Carefully, he returned the embrace, oddly reminded of third year as he patted her on the back. “Thanks for letting me, and for not running for the hills after tonight. Other than being embarrassed enough I could crawl under the floorboards, I had a good time today, too,” he said, meaning it. 

“Would you like to come over after work? I mean, so we can actually spend time talking, and not having to sit around watching me work. Dinner won't be anything fancy, but....”

“No, that--that’s perfect!” Ron assured her, happy to have a chance to get it right this time. “It’ll go better tomorrow, I promise!” 

“I get off at five. Message me if you want to meet at the lifts, alright?”

Ron nodded. “Sure. I’m pretty much caught up on all my paperwork unless a miracle happens and we get a lead tomorrow.”

They both stood there awkwardly for several moments, not knowing how to end the night. 

“I’ll, um, see you tomorrow,” Ron finally stammered out, knowing he sounded like some teen on his first date.

“I’ll look forward to it,” Hermione said, and he was relieved to hear she wasn't any smoother.

Before he could talk himself out of it, he leaned down to give her a soft, quick kiss on the cheek, knowing by her happy sigh that she was glad he had finally been the one to make the first move. Smiling, she took his hand, brushing her thumb over his knuckles before tugging him towards the fireplace. Releasing him, she took a copper banded jar from the mantle, opened the lid and held it out to him. 

“Here’s the Floo powder, if you’re sure you’re up to going home? Because you can stay until you’re ready,” she offered. 

He shook his head, reaching in. “Thanks, but I feel like I’m going to fall asleep standing up, even after the kip I took today. Not that I’d mind crashing on your sofa, but I promised Harry I’d bring those notes tomorrow.”

“Alright, as long as you’re sure. I suppose I should go over my report once more before bed.”

“As if you hadn't gone over it five times already. Get some rest; I know you didn't last night. See you tomorrow.”

He tossed the powder, calling out the name of his flat, and was yanked though, squinting into the dark as he stumbled out. He stood in the middle of the room, not bothering to turn on any lights. The silence was welcome after the busy day he’d had. Tomorrow, he’d Floo over to Shell Cottage and Wheezes to make at least some of his apologies during his lunch break. It was a Monday, and unless any new leads came in, he’d mostly be going over the files just like he had been Saturday. Tomorrow, he promised himself, he’d keep a cool head. No snapping and snarling at anyone. He’d make it through work, And then he would spend a nice evening with Hermione, proving he could go a day without frothing at the mouth like a rabid dog. 

He could do this. Tomorrow would go perfectly. 

 

 

 


	4. One Step Forward, One Handspring Back (Can I Start an Apology Tab?)

**A.N. I’m back with chapter 4! To answer something several people have asked, chapters _should_ be posted every two weeks, unless my crappy wifi or even crappier health prevents. I’m trying to stay on a steady pace, but real life obstacles and obligations obviously come first. (In a fit of irony, as soon as I finished these notes my Chromebook completely crashed and I had to spend the entire night recovering the OS.)**

**Another thing someone mentioned is that Ron’s family and friends might blame everything on the PTSD, even when he has genuine reason to be upset. Partially true! Whenever someone finally begins seeking help, those around them are usually so relieved that their tolerance is high--sometimes even too high--or they have trouble discerning when you’re genuinely having a bad moment, or when you're being an ass. Sometimes you can’t even tell; you overthink things, and have to figure out how to tell the difference. Sometimes you really are just upset, but the way you express it isn’t how you normally would, or even want to. Sometimes it’s even a mix of both--you start out upset, but then it spirals into something worse. And that’s going to be addressed in this and upcoming chapters. Not all at once, but gradually, as Ron and those around him learn. Also, I might not have made it clear in the first chapter, but Ron was typically fine with Hermione visiting his family; it’s not something they would have done if he had said it was too hard for him. After all, they were still friends and he still wanted to see her socially. The problem was, sometimes he would just......be mad. And asking him about it felt like pressure and coddling, and people usually stop after you bite their heads off after so many times, which is why Ginny met him at the door--to try to prepare him without invading his space. Any other time, his response might have been along the lines of ‘Yeah, whatever, what’s for dinner?” So I’m sorry if I made it unclear it was a matter of his moods being unpredictable, rather than his boundaries and feelings not being respected!**

 

Ron gathered his notes off of his kitchen table, tapping them into a reasonably neat stack before shoving them into his briefcase. He’d felt ridiculous when he had first bought it, but after several small heart attacks over nearly losing files by just carrying them in their folders, he broke down. It was well on its way to becoming battered, but it served his purpose and blended in with the other paper pushers at the Ministry. He scratched his chin, which felt oddly smooth after a morning shave, and checked his watch. He was still thirty minutes too soon to be considered ‘early,’ so he might as well make use of the time.

Last night, he had gone to bed almost as soon as he got home, and when he woke up this morning, he had transferred the vial from one set of trousers to another with his eyes squeezed shut, knowing that seeing the evidence of his lack of control would only upset him. 

Landing in the yard of the Burrow, the smell of smoke drifted towards him, the fireplaces going full force to combat the morning chill. He clomped around the house to the kitchen door, his regulation boots feeling especially heavy on ground he had spent years crossing barefoot. Not bothering to knock, he entered the kitchen, finding his parents just finishing breakfast. 

“Ron! Can I fix you some sausages?” His mum asked, already halfway to the stove. 

His dad folded his newspaper, looking up to give him his full attention.

“Ah, no thanks, Mum. I just wanted.....” he scratched the back of his head with the hand that wasn't holding his case, feeling like an overgrown child. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry for last night. I didn't mean to get so out of control.”

“We know you didn't, son. You're feeling alright now?” His dad asked, giving him a small smile. 

“I’m doing better. Hopefully I’ll get that sorted so things like that don’t happen.”

“You’ll apologize to your brother?” His mum asked, not quite as easy going as Dad.

Ron bit back a sarcastic comment, nodding his head. “Yeah, I’m going over on my lunch break,” he answered, absently taking one of the sausages she had just transferred from a skillet to a plate. 

“Good,” she said, nodding back approvingly. “I’m sure he and Fleur will appreciate that. Are you going to be alright going into work today?”

“Yes, Mum,” he sighed heavily around a mouthful of meat.

She raised her hands. “I was just asking! I can't help but worry you push yourself too hard.”

He mustered the energy to give her a half grin. “Betcha never thought you’d say that, did you?”

With a snort, she answered, “Oh, I knew you’d work hard with the proper motivation. I’m just glad you found one that doesn't involve me yelling myself hoarse.”

“I think I’ll be off,” said his dad, wiping his mouth with a napkin as he stood. “Nasty business with Fanged Frisbees being tossed into Muggle dog parks. Ron, d’you want to head in with me?”

Thrilled at the excuse to make an escape, Ron wiped the grease off of his fingers and nodded. “Yeah, that’d be great. That way I can take an early lunch. I’ll see you later, Mum.”

He and his father walked outside, their breath rising in the chilly air like clouds. 

“Thanks for stopping by this morning; your mum was worried about you.”

Ron shrugged, switching his briefcase to his other hand. “I figured she would be, and since I had time.....”

His dad clapped him on the shoulder. “Still, best to keep this visit short when you have more to do, right? I thought it best to give you an out.”

He smiled at his dad, grateful. “Thanks for that. It’s hard to get Mum to start once she gets going on something.”

“Don't I know it!” His dad laughed, his expression fond. 

They Apparated to the Ministry, and after promising that he would start work on the shed soon, they said their goodbyes, parting at the lifts. Ron made his way to the Auror department, where he knew he’d be the only one in yet. Soon, some of the more senior Aurors, along with Harry, would arrive, followed by a slow trickle of the rest, down to the ones who waited until the absolute last second to clock in. 

His cubicle was in the corner, one no one else wanted since it was slightly isolated. Ron liked it for exactly that reason; he couldn't wait to move up in the ranks enough to have an office with an actual door. The chair squeaked as he sat down, using his spare time to make some semblance of order to the notes that Harry had wanted. Once he was done, he took a deep breath. He’d cocked things up last night, but today would be different. Today he would remain calm. Nothing would get to him. 

On the other side of the partition, people began to arrive, greeting one another with various levels of enthusiasm. Not everyone was a morning person, and after the weekend, there were always at least a few who barely managed to drag themselves in. He looked over to find Harry chatting with two or three of them, before he caught Ron’s eye and waved that he’d be there in a minute. Ron sat back down, struck with a sudden idea. He grabbed his quill and some parchment, checking his watch. Hermione should be in by now, knowing her. Taking care to make his writing legible, he wrote a short note telling her he would meet her in her office for a quick lunch if that was alright, and that he was excited to see her tonight. He sealed it, paused to wonder if he should go ahead, then quickly flicked his wand to send it on its way. 

“Morning, Ron. Got those notes?” Harry asked, coming up behind him.

He grabbed the papers and spun his chair around to face him. “Here you go; that should be up to date. Um, Harry?”

Harry flipped through the pages, pausing to look at Ron. “Yeah?”

Ron rolled his wand between his hands. “About last night. I’m sorry for going off like that. Made a right tit of myself.”

“It was a shock, but not too bad. Don't worry about it,” Harry said with a shrug.

But Ron shook his head, frustrated. “No, I was way out of line. Look, I appreciate you all not holding it against me, but I think you might be going too easy on me when I cock up.”

“As my good deed for the day, I'm not going to tell Ginny what you just said,” Harry smirked.

“Ha! Yeah, thanks. But seriously, don't let me get away with shite, alright? I need to know when I’ve gone over the line.”

Harry scratched his head, leaving two clumps to stand up like horns. “Alright. But really, it wasn't a big deal for us. I think the ones you should worry about are Bill and Fleur.”

“I know, and that’s why I’m going over there on my lunch break, before I eat with Hermione.”

“That’s good. Although it’s too bad you’ll have to cut your time with Hermione short.”

Ron looked down at the floor, blushing faintly. “Uh, I’m not, really. I’m seeing her again tonight.”

A slow grin crept over Harry’s face. “Oh, reeeeeally? And here I thought you two were planning on taking it slow! Looks like there’s still more than sparks between you, huh?”

“Shh!” Ron hissed, hoping no one had heard. “Shut it, will ya? Besides, it’s not like that. She had work to do yesterday, so we didn't get a chance to talk very much.”

“But things are going alright with the two of you?” Harry asked, becoming serious.

Ron thought about it, then nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I think they are. I know I’ve been an arse, but I’ve really missed her. And even after last night, she was still supportive, you know? I think we’re both pretty determined to make it work, this time.”

Harry patted him on the shoulder. “Glad to hear it. Oh, and say hi to her for me, will you? I know we usually eat lunch together, but I think I’ll leave you two to it, today.”

He almost told Harry that he didn't need to do that, but he stopped himself. They really could use the time alone; reforming their bond was going to take time and effort, and with his job, it was never certain when he was going to be called out on a mission that could last for weeks. 

“I will. And you tell Ginny what I said about last night, alright?”

Harry nodded. “Sure. I’ll let you get to work, since your lunch will probably run a bit long. Thanks again for the notes.”

Once Harry had left, Ron turned back to his desk, picking out a few files to lay in front of him. He was pretty much stuck until they got a new lead, but he supposed it wouldn't hurt to go over them again looking for connections.

 

 

The seaside air was colder than in the city, and Ron shivered on the doorstep of Shell Cottage, hoping someone would answer his knock soon. He was just starting to wonder if maybe nobody was home, when the door was opened by Bill. His brother’s eyebrows shot to his hairline at the sight of him.

“Ron! I.....wasn't expecting you. Is everything alright?”

“Yeah. I just need to talk to you. Can I come in a minute?”

“Sure. Come in out of the cold,” Bill said, Ron detecting a touch of reluctance. 

Ron followed him inside, carefully knocking off his boots so he didn't track anything in onto Fleur’s clean floors. There was a crackling fire going in the fireplace, and the warmth combined with the cool colors of the room gave the cottage a feeling of summer. He sat down on the pale green sofa, while Bill gave the fire a poke before sitting in the armchair that had been drawn up close beside it. 

“So, What brings you all the way out here? It looks like you're dressed for work. This isn't anything official, is it?”

Ron shook his head, licking suddenly dry lips. “Nah, nothing like that. It’s.....I came about last night.”

“Oh?” Bill asked, his expression guarded.

“Yeah. I just wanted to say--wait, is Fleur here?”

“No, she took Victoire out for some shopping, since we’re leaving tomorrow to go visit her family.”

“Damn. I wanted to tell her too. Well, I just came over here to say I’m really, really sorry about last night. It was because--nevermind, it doesn't matter why--but I was way out of line, and I hope you both can forgive me.”

Stiffness seemed to seep out of Bill’s body as he sat forward, his limbs looser and relaxed. “Of course we can. It was just....you weren't too thrilled when Victoire was born, and Fleur was starting to think, maybe.....”

Ron shook his head hard. “No! I--I love Victoire, you have to know that. And Fleur, too. It was just.....it was another thing that Fred was never going to get, you know? The first really big thing after the war. And her birthday.....I was having a hard time dealing with it all, and I didn't realize I was being an arse. Story of my life, lately, or so I’m hearing.”

Bill nodded. “I can understand. It....it wasn't an easy time for any of us. I think Victoire was the only good thing, and focusing on her helped a lot. I know it did for Mum. But it wouldn't be the same for the rest of you. And I know you said it doesn't matter, but what about last night?”

He adjusted an already perfectly placed throw pillow. “It’s stupid. I’d gotten myself so worked up that someone was going to say something about Hermione. You know, a crack from George, or Mum pushing for us to go faster than we’re ready. I just kept thinking that any second, it would happen; the longer it went, the worse I got. And then when she stood up and said that....”

“Ah. You thought she wanted you and Hermione to stand up and make some big announcement,” Bill said, nodding.

“Exactly. Then when I realized what a colossal tit I’d made of myself, I couldn't stand to make things worse, so I left. I really am sorry, Bill.”

“It’s alright, Ron. I won't say we weren't upset, but you didn't do it on purpose.”

“Maybe not, but still. And it’s not the first time I’ve done something like that.”

“No, but it’s the first time you’ve apologized for it, and that’s something. And didn't Hermione say something about you getting some kind of help?”

Ron nodded. “Yeah, I’m seeing someone. He seems to think he can help me get myself under control. Not sure how long it’ll take, but I don't want to go on like this. I just wish I knew what was wrong with me; you must think I’m a complete nutter.”

Bill raised an eyebrow at him. “Are you forgetting we had an uncle who used to go around with a tea cozy on his head, claiming to be a teapot? I think you’ve got a ways to go before you hit that mark.”

“Thanks, I think,” Ron snorted.

“But seriously, I’ve seen similar, you know? In my line of work, I’ve met a lot of people that went through the first war that aren't so different. Some very much worse, actually. Mad Eye, for instance.”

“Oh, sweet Merlin,” Ron groaned. “Did you have to lump me in with him? I said I was sorry, didn't I?”

Bill threw back his head, laughing. “Mad Eye was definitely worse, Ron! At least you don't go around roaring ‘constant vigilance’ at everyone!”

Ron decided not to mention that he actually did, at work. Mad Eye might have been paranoid, but he hadn't been wrong. 

“I’d look rather fetching with the eye, though,” Ron said, standing. “I still have another stop to make, so I should be going. Are we alright?”

Bill stood up, coming over to pull Ron into a one armed hug. “Of course we are. And we’re glad that you’re getting help, too. Fleur and I have both noticed that you haven't really been happy in a long time, and we’ve been worried. Let us know if we can do anything, alright?”

“Thanks. Be sure to tell Fleur what I said, alright? And do you mind if I use your Floo?”

“I’ll tell her as soon as she gets back from the shops. Which, knowing her, could be another three hours or so. Sure, go ahead. Oh! I also forgot to say congratulations on getting back together with Hermione. Always thought the two of you were good for each other, and I know she’ll help you while you sort yourself out.”

“I think so, too. I just.....I just wish I wasn't such a mess, you know? After everything, it sort of feels like I’m letting her down even more, making her deal with my problems.”

Bill’s eyes cut towards him, a humorless smile tugging on his lips. “I know how you feel. There’s not enough time today, but if that starts to bother you any more, come for another visit; I have a story that might interest you. Here, Floo’s on the mantle.”

Ron carefully reached for a handful of Floo powder, holding his breath so he didn't break the cut crystal container that he knew had been a wedding gift from one of Fleur’s relatives. She might forgive him for being an arse, but she had her limits. With a final wave to Bill, his was pulled towards his next destination.

 

 

The noises from the main part of the shop were muffled through the door, but it sounded like it was busy. Ron hoped he’d be able to catch his brother, because he wouldn't have time to come back this evening. Taking a chance, he poked his head into George’s office, coming all the way in when he saw that George was at his desk with a sandwich. 

“Hey, George. Got a minute?”

George swallowed a large mouthful, taking a swig of Butterbeer to clear his throat. “Ron! Sure, come on in. I’ve got about twenty minutes before I need to go back out front, and since Ange has abandoned me for a lunch with friends, I’m all yours. What’s up?”

Ron lowered himself into one of the chairs in front of the desk, wishing George would spring for new ones. The one he was sitting in had a wobbly leg, and he knew it was the best of the two.

“I just wanted to apologize for last night. It was supposed to be special, and I ruined it.”

George popped a crisp into his mouth. “Ron. Remember the first Christmas after Fred?”

“Um, yeah,” Ron nodded, shifting in his seat. George had been in a right mood that day. 

“And my birthday? And several Sunday dinners? I’m not exactly in a position to judge you. What got you all in a twist, anyway?”

“Dunno. It was just--I know it’s stupid, but I felt like everyone was talking about me. Waiting to say something about me and Hermione. Everything started closing in, and I just sort of exploded.”

George fiddled with the paper around his sandwich. “I felt the same after Fred died. Even when other people weren't thinking about it, it still always felt like they were getting ready to bring him up. It got to the point that snapping everyone’s head off before they could felt.....safer, I guess. You doing better today?”

“Yeah. Talked to Mum and Dad, and Bill already. No one’s mad, but I still feel bad.”

“Don't,” George shrugged. “It’s over, and no one’s mad. You can't change it, and you've already apologized for it. Making yourself feel bad is only going to make you feel like shite, which makes it more likely you’ll do it again. I noticed Hermione didn't come back down last night, so I’m guessing she helped?”

George made it sound easier than it was. He knew he should let go of it, but it was hard. Instead, he focused on his question. “She did. I was pretty surprised she didn't get mad, or just leave me to myself after. Damn it, I want things to work out between us, but I'm not sure it’s fair to ask her to go through all of this!”

“Gee, I wonder what that’s like,” George answered, his voice heavy with sarcasm.

Ron felt embarrassed. “I didn't mean--”

“I know, forget it.” George waved his hand. “Look, I already went through this with Angelina. Got to the point I was pushing her away pretty hard. All it did was hurt her--and piss her off. Know what she told me? That she wanted to be with me. That all the crap I’m going through is a part of me right now, and being with me means dealing with that, too. Hermione’s smart, Ron. She knows what she’s getting into. You've just got to accept that she’s strong enough to make her own decisions, and try not to make it any harder than it’s going to be already.”

“I know you're right,” Ron sighed, “But knowing she _can_ handle it doesn't mean I want her to have to.”

“And you think I want that for Angie? I don't. And I fuck up sometimes. But just because it isn't easy, doesn't mean I’m going to give up on it.”

Ron sat there for a few minutes while George continued to eat. He wished things were different; wished he and Hermione only had to deal with the usual ups and downs of a relationship. Maybe, someday, they could get to that point. Giving up now wouldn't get them there, though. And George was right; Hermione wouldn't have gone into this without thinking about it long and hard first. He couldn't belittle her by ‘rescuing’ her from her own choices. Like George, he was going to mess up. The only thing he could do was the best he could.

“Neither am I. And it’s worth it, isn't it? Not just--not just for her, but everything.”

George frowned at the bottle of Butterbeer, rolling the last few mouthfuls around. “It won't always feel like it on bad days, but yeah. Yeah, it really is.”

The thoughtful silence was interrupted by the loud growling of Ron’s stomach. George pulled the rest of his sandwich closer, protectively.

“Damn!” Ron said, looking at his watch. “I’m going to be late. I promised Hermione I’d stop by her office for lunch. See you later!”

“Just remember, I want help changing the displays out Thursday night!” George called out behind him.

Ron didn't bother to answer as he fled the room, hoping he had a chance to grab something before meeting Hermione.

 

 

Hermione rubbed the cramp out of her hand from writing all morning; she had pushed herself ever since she arrived, wanting to stay ahead of schedule so she could enjoy lunch with Ron, as well as not have anything she needed to take home tonight. It was almost lunchtime now, so she began to clear off a space on her desk, happily noting that everyone else who was in today always took their meal somewhere else. She wondered if she should make room for Harry, but she doubted it. Although they most often ate together, he was sure to make other arrangements today, to give her and Ron some more time to adjust, a gesture she appreciated. 

Would Ron be alright after last night? If he was embarrassed, it could put him in a sour mood. She had tried to do what she could to help him, but she was at a loss; what would be the best thing for her to do in these situations? She wasn't naive enough to think it would never happen again. Pointing it out to him when it happens didn't really feel right. Personally, she _loathed_ it when people told her she was overreacting, and she couldn't see Ron taking it any better. On the other hand, things like that just couldn't be ignored, either. On a more positive note, he had been aware of himself enough to realize what he had done, had been genuinely sorry, and planned to make a proper apology, all without being prompted. Surely that was a good sign, wasn't it? 

And then this morning, there had been that lovely note. After being treated so brusquely by him for so long, the warmth and affection was a welcome change. It reminded her of the sweet little things he used to do for her; it gave her hope that the Ron she had always loved, though maybe changed somewhat, wasn't gone completely. 

The door to the office opened, and she could see the top of Ron’s head over the cubicles. She stood up to wave him over, smiling back at the way his face lit up when he saw her.

“Hope I’m not too late?” He asked, setting two trays of food down. “I wasn't sure if you’d had a chance to get anything, so I took a chance and brought you something.”

Hermione looked down at the tray he pushed towards her. On it was half a turkey and cheese sandwich, and a cup of soup. He had even remembered the packet of tiny crackers she liked. 

“This is perfect, thanks. Is something wrong? You look a little out of breath,” she asked, before blowing on a spoonful of soup.

“I’m fine,” Ron said after swallowing a large bite of his roast beef sandwich. “I just had to do some running when I got back here, since I was afraid I was going to be late.”

“You weren't out on a case or anything, were you?”

“Ha! No, haven't had a break on anything we’re working on yet. I reckon that’ll change the first warm spell we have, though. I was just.....I had popped out to talk to Bill and stuff. ‘Bout last night.”

“And it worked out alright?”

“It might not’ve if Fleur had been there--I get the feeling she’s a bit slower to forgive, makes you work for it--but Bill says we’re fine. I also stopped at the Burrow this morning, and the shop after Bill, so I think I’ve been as sorry as I can be for one day.”

“That was good of you. I’m sure they appreciated it.”

“Probably would've appreciated it more if I hadn't been an arse in the first place, but I hope it at least helped.”

“Of course it did! Don't discount the importance of an apology.”

They both concentrated on their food for a few bites before she ventured a subject change.

“I forgot to mention it earlier, but thanks for the note you sent this morning.”

Ron ducked his head a little, his ears flushing, but he also looked slightly pleased. “You liked it?”

“Yes. It was incredibly sweet.”

His blush deepened, and Hermione was struck by how much it felt like they were teeneagers again, both pleased and embarrassed over such small things. Part of her was sad, knowing how much ground they had lost in the years since they had broken up. But the past couldn't be changed; it was too bad they had lost a lot of the progress they had made, but it just made her all the more determined to enjoy it this time around. 

“So, um, what are we doing tonight? If we’re still on?” Ron asked, clearing his throat.

“I thought we could go to my place. Maybe pick up a pizza for dinner, and just.....relax and talk. Not be so.....polite.”

“Is that your way of saying I should act natural?” Ron asked with a smirk.

Hermione felt a small, pleasant shiver go through her, although she couldn't pinpoint just why. “On second thought, maybe we should stick to the polite part.”

“Oh, no!” Ron shook his head. “We need to be honest and true to ourselves! It wouldn't be fair to give you anything less than the full Ron Weasley experience.”

“I thought that was covered by having to watch you eat pizza,” she said innocently.

Ron laughed, throwing a wadded up napkin at her. “You weren't kidding about that not being polite bit! Are you going to be able to stand it, or have you changed your mind?”

“I can handle the smacking, if you can handle the nagging to chew with your mouth closed.”

He tilted his head to the side thoughtfully. “A tall order, but you're worth it, so alright.”

They beamed at each other, the warm feeling spreading throughout her having very little to do with the soup.

“Ah, crap; looks like I need to get back to the department. Meet you at the lifts at five?” Ron asked, standing up.

“That’ll be fine. I might be a few minutes late; it seems like someone always wants something just as I’m headed out the door.”

“No worries, I’ll wait. Here, I’ll take your tray down with me. See you later!”

“Later,” Hermione replied, watching him all the way to the door. 

She glanced up at her clock; now it was time to bury herself in her work, and hope the hours passed quickly.

 

 

When five o’clock rolled around, Ron tried to shake off the headache that had been forming for the last hour and a half, after they had all been bawled out for not making any progress. Tension was running high, and it was almost at the point where you wanted to go out and drag the first person you met on the street in for questioning. He probably would’ve been madder, if it hadn't been pointed out how much he’d worked on his notes in his spare time, and had made a few connections earlier on before the trail went dead. Surprisingly, Hermione had already been at the lifts, and the two of them went to her place, after she had called from the grocers down the street and had ordered the pizza to be delivered to the flat. 

“I hope your day was better than mine,” Hermione grumbled as she unlocked her door. “I swear, David pulls this way too often; he knew all day that he was going to need those papers, but of course he didn't ask me until ten minutes before it was time to leave!”

“Isn’t he the one who naps through meetings?” Ron asked, trying to remember when she’d mentioned that name before.

“The one and the same. And then expects you to have taken notes for him! I told him he was just going to have to wait until tomorrow; I don't care if Mummy Dearest _is_ on the Wizengamot!” 

“Good. Quicker he realises he can't use you like that, the quicker he’ll either move onto someone else, or start pulling his own weight.”

“Sadly, it’s more likely to be the former,” Hermione sighed, tossing her purse and briefcase onto the chair. “How was your day?”

“Slow. Not that I’m not glad that the slime of the Wizarding world isn't out wreaking havoc, but I’d like to close a few cases. We all got our ears chewed off today, as if it were our fault. I have a feeling we’re going to have a bunch of makework shoved onto us if it keeps up.”

“I’m surprised no one has been pulling in some of the smaller criminals to prevent that.”

Ron kicked off his shoes and tossed his briefcase down by them. “Not after what happened to Rawlins about a month ago. He nabbed someone on an offence that barely rated a warning, didn't realize how well connected he was. Got busted back down to Junior Auror over it, and still hasn't lived it down.”

“Ouch,” Hermione winced. “Fair, but humiliating. Ron, would you listen for the pizza? I want to go change.”

“Sure, I’ve got some Muggle money in my wallet.”

Ron dropped down onto the sofa, stretching his arms along the back. He was starving; he hoped the pizzas got here soon. He wasn't sure how long he was going to be able to stay tonight. Tomorrow, they were going to be doing maneuvers, and he was going to need at least a little sleep. Of course, Hermione had to work tomorrow too, so he doubted she’d mind. 

Just as he got comfortable, a knock came at the door, and he rose to answer it. He checked the peephole first, getting an eyeful of a spotty teenager in a bright red uniform. He kept his hand ready at his wand as he opened the door, relaxing only when the kid shoved the boxes at him disinterestedly and muttered the total. Ron counted out enough money and a tip, took the steaming cardboard boxes of delight, and closed and locked the door. 

“Did I hear the pizza arrive?” Hermione called out, coming into the living room, dressed in a jumper and soft trousers.

“Just got here. Want to eat it in here, or the kitchen?”

“Here’s fine; let me just grab some butterbeers.”

Once Hermione had gotten the drinks, they each took a box. Hermione’s was loaded with veggies, while Ron had extra pepperoni and cheese. Both were hungry, so they managed to eat half a slice before they felt like trying to talk. 

 

“So,” Ron said, wiping some grease off his chin with the back of his hand. “I know we were going to talk, but I’m not really sure what you wanna start with?”

Hermione shrugged. “I don't know. It seems strange, doesn't it? It isn't as if we haven't seen each other at all these past couple of years. It’s just......different now. Do you want to talk about.....you know....” she motioned at him.

He paused mid bite, his stomach suddenly queasy. “Um, would you mind if we didn't? I know we’re probably going to be talking about it a lot as it is--already have, really--and I’d sort of like to see the Healer at least once more, and....get a better feel for it, I guess.”

She shook her head. “Of course that’s fine. You’ve had a lot dumped on you these past couple of days, so you're probably sick of it. We can talk about other things.”

The knot in his stomach uncoiled. “Thanks. Anything else should be fine, though.”

Slowly, they began to talk about random things, falling back into their old patterns. Now that there wasn't any hurt or hostility, they found themselves able to talk more freely than they had in a long time; without the fear of indifference or a snide remark, they were able to talk about things more in depth, things they had only glossed over in passing before. They laughed over funny stories from work, and commiserated about some of the irritating things they had had to put up with. 

As they talked, he began to notice that she seemed to change the subject every time he brought up her family. At first, he didn't think much of it--there were so many things to say, and they bounced from subject to subject--but then he started to wonder.......had she told them that she was seeing him again? And if she had, had they been upset, and she didn't want to tell him? He wouldn't be surprised if they weren't exactly thrilled at the idea. Even though he hadn't meant to, he knew he had hurt her. That’s not exactly something you want to see your kid open themselves up to again. Still, it was better if they knew. He didn't want to be some dirty little secret. Plus, he knew that Hermione valued spending time with her parents, and she had always seemed pleased before when he had been a part of that. 

“You’ve already been to the Burrow a few times; do you want to do something with your parents in a week or two? Maybe lunch out or something?” He asked abruptly, having lost the thread of the conversation. 

Hermione froze, a sick expression flickering on her face. “I.....I don't think so. It’s not really the best time.”

“Hermione, have you....told them at all? That we’re back together.”

She shook her head, looking down at her fingers knotted together on her lap. “There hasn't been much time.”

That was.....sort of true. She’d either been at work or with him, for the most part. But the way she was acting said there was something more than that, and he couldn't help the worries that began to gnaw away at him like hungry rats.

“Are you going to tell them? Or are you waiting to see if I’m crackers first?” He asked, trying to keep his voice light, but knowing that she heard the strain.

“Of course not!” She returned hotly, before slumping. “That’s not......Ron, it isn't about you, I promise. It’s just that.....Oh, Merlin, I didn't want to bring this up yet.....” she muttered the last part.

“What? What is it? You say it’s not about me, but I can't help but feel like it is,” he said, his heart beginning to thud erratically. 

She closed her eyes, and he could see her try to gather herself by taking several deep breaths. 

 

“Alright. Alright, just.....give me a minute. This is hard.”

He could see that; she’d gone sickly pale, a greenish cast to her skin that she usually got only when she was going to be physically ill. All of a sudden, he wasn't sure he wanted to hear this.

“Early this past spring--it’ll be a year in a few months--Dad was out doing some yardwork. Mum was inside, but after a few hours, she went to check if he would like a drink. She found him.....he was on the ground.....not breathing.....” Hermione began to breathe unevenly, her words coming at an uneven pace, first rapid, then halting. “She called an ambulance, got him to the hospital, but it was too late. He was gone. A heart attack. It was completely unexpected! He was in perfect health at his physical just a few weeks before!” Hermione wailed, then shook her head sharply, trying to pull herself out of it. “Mum took it very hard. She’s sold the practice, and she’s travelling--trying to ‘find herself.’ I don't hear from her very regularly. So....I haven't been able to tell her.”

Ron stared at her in a sort of stupefied horror. Her dad was...... _dead?_ It didn't seem real. He knew Hermione had been determined to get the closeness back she had let weaken during her school years, and she had to be crushed that her time had been cut short. He’d lived in an almost constant fear of losing any more of his family, so he knew she was--wait. His mind snagged on a fact he hadn't been able to focus on before. Nearly a year? How on earth had he missed that?

“Wait, what do you mean, nearly a year ago?” He asked, frowning as he tried to puzzle it out. “I know I wouldn't forget something like that--”

“I didn't tell you.”

He searched her eyes, filled with a sadness he recognized, trying to find answers. “Why not? Couldn't you trust me? Was I such a monster that--”

“Ron, no!” She reached out to touch his leg, but he jerked away, standing up to pace.

“I must've been, if you didn't tell me something as important as that!” 

Who else knew? How much was there that he’d never been told? How many more pieces would be dribbled out to him, that were common knowledge with everyone else? How far behind was he?

“Everyone else knows, don't they?” He asked, not hearing the slightly hysterical edge to his voice. 

“I'm not sure--”

“How can you not be sure? You either told them or you didn’t!”

“I didn't tell anyone!” She shouted, leaning forward. “Harry and Ginny dropped by here after the funeral without owling first! I was still dressed in black and sobbing my eyes out--I didn't have much choice at that point, although I didn't want _anyone_ to know! They've probably told your family, but I made them promise not to tell you.”

He turned away, gripping the mantle for support at that blow, before facing her again. “So you couldn't even let me find out that way? Don't you think I would've--”

“Would've what?” She cried. “Would've treated me with polite indifference, as usual? Or worse, would you have been all warm and sympathetic--making me feel like you cared, out of _pity?_ Only to be cold again once I was doing better? I was already at my wits’ end trying to deal with losing Dad and taking care of Mum; I couldn't put myself through that too!”

“It wouldn't have been out of pity!” He said angrily, then slapped his hand to his trouser pocket. “Oh, fuck, I forgot--” He pulled out the vial, just in time to see another white ball swirl through pink, then settle on red. “Fuck!” He yelled, holding it up. “Now look! I can't afford to have anymore of these--” another turned red.

“Put it down!” Hermione said, clearly as panicked as he was. 

“I can't! That's the whole bloody--damn it, another one!”

He felt himself spiraling, afraid that every single one would be red in a matter of minutes, then becoming angry at the prospect, then afraid again. Another one turned red, and he let out a choked sob, his throat closing up, his other hand gripping his throat as he struggled to breathe.

“No, nonono, I can't, I can't!” 

“Stupefy!”

 

 

Ron blinked, his vision swimming in and out of focus; he was lying flat on his back, looking up into the blobby, concerned faces of Harry and Hermione. What the hell was Harry doing here? And what the hell had happened to him? Did he pass out? Was he dying?

“Ron? Ron, are you alright? Say something! Oh, God, Harry, maybe we should take him to St. Mungo’s!” Hermione cried, the words interspersed with hiccupy little sobs. 

“Give him a chance to answer, Hermione. Ron? Can you sit up?”

Could he? Felt like he was made of jelly. Wincing, he pushed himself into a sitting position, swaying slightly. “What hit me?”

“Me! Oh, Ron, I’m so sorry! But I didn't know what else to do--you were so upset, and not breathing right, and it was just getting worse, so--so I Stupefied you,” Hermione answered in a tiny voice, drooping like a puppy that had been caught piddling on the rug. 

“She Floo called me all in a panic,” Harry explained. “When I got here and saw you stretched out on the floor, I thought she’d finally killed you.”

“That’s not funny, Harry!” Hermione yelled, socking him on the arm.

“Sorry, sorry!” Harry apologized, rubbing his arm. “Seriously though, are you alright?”

Ron rubbed his head, knowing he was bright red. “Aside from the raging case of embarrassment, yeah, I’m fine,” he mumbled.

“Ron, I’m so sorry! I just--there was nothing else I could think of, and I panicked, and--”

Seeing her look so dejected, Ron shook off his embarrassment and reached out to take her hand. “Hermione, stop. It’s fine, really. There wasn't anything else you could do--it was brilliant of you to think of that. I’m not mad about it. Or, you know, the other.”

She squeezed his hand back, giving him a shaky smile. “So you feel better now?”

He thought a minute. “Yeah. Just......really, really tired all of a sudden. I know we still need to finish talking about what we were earlier, but--”

“You should probably go home and get some rest,” she finished. “Harry, would you make sure he gets there alright?”

“Sure. You ready to go?” Harry asked, adjusting the pullover that looked like he’d barely had time to yank it on before coming.

“Yeah, just a tic. Um, can I see Hermione alone for a moment?” He asked, trying to signal with his eyes that he didn't want to end the night on a bad note.

Harry heaved himself to his feet. “I’ll just be in the bathroom, then,” he said, already walking down the hall.

Ron stood up, leaning on Hermione’s shoulder a little. It felt like all of the energy had been sucked from his body, leaving him as limp as one of his Mum’s wet dishrags. 

“I know I’ve already said it, but I’m sorry that--”

“Hermione, don't be. You don't have anything to be sorry about. I can't think of anything else you could have done. I’m sorry I went off like that. I didn't mean to; it’s just.....I couldn't take everything in, and I just sort of.....I dunno. I freak out. But I’m not mad at you for doing what you had to do. And.....I’m not mad at you for not telling me. Hurt, yeah, but.....it’s not like you owed it to me, or anything. It was your own business to tell who you wanted to.”

She leaned her head against his chest, and he put his arms around her, wishing they could do this without him fucking up first. Maybe he should make that a goal.

“Thanks. It’s not......I just want you to know, that I would have told you if things had been......better....between us. I mean, I didn't want to talk about it at _all._ I almost wanted to pretend it wasn't happening, but if I was going to tell anyone, it would've been you.”

“I wish you could’ve,” he said quietly. “That’s not the kind of thing you should have to go through alone. I wish.....I wish I’d been there for you.”

He meant that; he’d been gutted when Fred died, and Hermione had been a huge part of how he’d gotten through it. From the sound of it, her mum hadn't been in any shape to help--not that he could blame her--and he hated the idea of her dealing with it by herself. Hadn't that been one of his goals when he’d come back to her and Harry? To make sure he was always there for them? Couldn't even keep promises to himself.....

“It wasn't your fault, Ron. And you're here now; I know we can get back to that point. So please, try not to be so upset about it.”

“Ron? Are you ready, or should I bring a magazine in here?” Harry called out.

“Or you could just flush yourself,” Ron muttered, rolling his eyes as Hermione snickered. “Yeah, let’s go.”

“See you tomorrow at lunch?” Hermione asked hopefully.

“Definitely. Unless I’m actually called out, which I doubt. Send a message and let me know what you want me to bring up from the canteen.” 

They shared a brief kiss before Harry came in, walking over to Ron. 

“I’ll Apparate us; I ate recently, and I hate going by Floo too soon after,” Harry told Ron, reaching for his arm. “Night, Hermione!”

She had barely finished saying goodnight before Ron and Harry landed in Ron’s flat, both of them wrinkling their noses at the unusually strong odor of cat urine coming from one of the other flats.

“If she buys one more, I swear I’m turning her in,” Ron grumbled, using a Charm to freshen the air, even though he knew from experience it wouldn't last. 

“I think you should look for a new place. I always feel like this one is going to fall down under me,” Harry said, leaning his hip against the back of the sofa.

“Eh, it suits its purpose well enough.”

“You'll change your mind when you start having regular......company.”

“Harry? Why didn't you say anything about Hermione’s dad?”

Harry froze, looking like he wanted to scuttle away like he used to back at Hogwarts when he would walk in on him and Hermione arguing. “She.....told you about that?”

“It took some effort to get out of her, but yeah.”

“I suppose it was too much to hope you guys would stick to the lighter topics,” Harry sighed. “She wasn't hiding it from you personally, know that, right? If Gin and I hadn't gone over to her place, I don't think she would've told us. We could tell she wasn't doing well, but we thought it was stress at work, or.....something. Is that what you got upset about?”

Ron sat down in his chair, the stuffing conforming to his body. “It was. And I know she wasn't but....it was like it hit home how much I’ve missed. I got worried about how much more there is that I don't know. How much her life as changed, and wondering if I’ll be able to fit into it. Stupid things to think, when I should've been asking about her, but I just.....can't control my head sometimes.”

“Hermione hasn't changed, Ron. Well, at least not so much that things won't work out for the two of you. And I think it’ll help her, now that she has you to talk about it with. You know I would've--and Ginny--but....” he shrugged. “You know how it is. Sometimes you only want to deal with it with certain people.”

“I’d be an even bigger help if she didn't have to Stupefy me every time a difficult topic came up,” Ron snorted.

“Oh, come on! It’s only happened once. Once you’ve had some more sessions, I’m sure he’ll have some ideas for better ways to help you. Although, I wouldn't mind volunteering to Stupefy you on occasion.....”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I can just imagine Ginny and George trying to get in on it; I don't need my brains addled any more than they already are.”

“I guess those two would be a little overly enthusiastic,” Harry allowed. “Are you going to be alright, or do you want me to stay awhile?”

Ron yawned, cracking his jaw. “I’ll be fine. Pretty sure I’ll be dead asleep once my head hits the pillow. Which I guess is a plus, otherwise I’d be lying there thinking how stupid I was tonight.”

Harry frowned, his eyebrows scrunching up under his glasses. “What do you mean, stupid?”

“Oh, come on, Harry! Even I can tell that it’s not normal to get that bent out of shape just because someone doesn't tell you something, especially when there’s no reason for them to!” Ron said, feeling slightly irritated. He wished someone would come right out and say when he was being a git.

“It was pretty big news, Ron,” Harry protested. “I think anyone would've been hurt and upset--I know I would've been, if Ginny had done the same.”

“Alright, to a point, yeah, maybe,” Ron said, rubbing his face. “But that’s different. You and Gin are in a relationship. You're _supposed_ to share big things like that. Hermione and me......we weren't. She was going through a bad time, and it would've been unfair to expect her to keep me in the loop about it when most of the time I was pretty much giving her a cold shoulder. I know I sure as hell wouldn't want to open myself up to that.”

Harry seemed to ponder that. “Alright, those are pretty valid points. But if you know that, then why did you....” he gestured vaguely. 

“React like Mrs. Black’s portrait whenever a Muggle walked into the house? Hell if I know!” He threw his hands up, letting them fall back to dangle between his knees. “I don't get it, Harry. I thought that if I knew I overreacted sometimes, I’d just be able to catch it and stop myself. But I can't. It’s like everything I know gets tossed right out of my head.”

“Still, it’s a start. Before, you probably wouldn't have even noticed, and at least you're making an effort. One session--and probably not much more than an introduction at that--isn't going to work instant miracles.”

“How can you be so disgustingly optimistic,” Ron asked, giving a faint smirk.

With a shrug, Harry answered, “Well, I think I actually learned it from you and Hermione. You know how I’d get back in school, but the two of you wouldn't let me wallow in it, always telling me you were there for me, and all that. So even though sometimes I wanted you to shut up and let me be miserable,” both of them laughed at that, “you didn't give up and on me.....and we’re not going to give up on you.”

Ron could feel himself getting choked up. He was lucky, he knew, to have friends that would stand by him through this--others would've been driven away long before now. 

“Thanks. I....that means a lot. And I wish I could say that I wasn't going to act like an ungrateful prat at times, but......”

Harry smiled ruefully. “Trust me, I know. I wasn't always appreciative at the time myself. But look how well I turned out?”

Ron started to laugh, but it was broken by another yawn.

“You look beat. And we’ve got to get up early tomorrow, I so I'm gonna head out now. See you at work?”

“Yeah. If I’m not there, you'd better pop over and make sure I haven't overslept; feels like I might. And Harry?”

“What is it?”

“Do you think......do you think you could stop back at Hermione’s, and make sure she’s alright? I know she got pretty upset, and I don't want her beating herself up for Stupefying me when there really wasn't any other option.”

“Sure, I can do that. I think she was afraid of hurting you, or it being worse when you came out of it. But you seemed to be fine once you did, so I think she’ll be alright.”

“Good.” Ron let out a sigh. “And hopefully, soon we can spend a day together that doesn't end up with me having a meltdown.”

“Don't worry, mate; you'll get there.”

 

Once Harry was gone, Ron staggered into his room, sluggishly removing his clothes. He fell into bed, making sure his wand was under his pillow. Slapping his pillow into shape, his mind wandered, thinking about his day. He’d managed reasonably well with his family, and while there was tension at work, it wasn't really about him and he knew it would dissipate once they could make some sort of progress in at least one case. In their line of work they could go from having absolutely no leads, to being so swamped that they barely had enough Aurors to keep up.

Lunch, and the first part of the evening with Hermione had gone really well. They were starting to lose some of that lingering awkwardness--at least it wasn't like they hadn't spoken in years or something--and they were starting to feel more comfortable around each other. He wanted to take her on an actual date within the next couple of weeks, but thought, sadly, that it might not be a good idea. So far each time they’d been together, he’d lost it over something, and he’d prefer to at least not embarrass her in public. He was going to have to find a way to keep a grip on himself, because as nice as it was just to sit with her at her flat, he wanted them to be able to go out and do things. Although he wasn't big on crowds, he could manage for good stretches before he had to go home. Usually. 

Would she want to, though? He couldn't help but wonder if tonight hadn't been enough to give her second thoughts. She had seemed fine when he and Harry had left, but that just might be lingering shock. She could be sitting in bed right now, wondering if there was a delicate way to get shot of him a second time. 

Well, he’d know at lunch tomorrow. And Wednesday, he was going into his session with questions. He’d been sort of directionless before, but now......it was pretty clear what he needed to work on first.

**Story Notes: For those wondering why he bothered to apologize to George, it was more of a matter that Ron knows that his brother has been through similar situations, so in this story it won’t be unusual for Ron to seek him out to try to help understand himself by learning from George’s experiences, even if the situation isn’t tied directly to George.**

**Second; yes. I killed Mr. Granger. I hated doing it, but there had to be something to give Ron a sense of fear of having missed out on important things with Hermione--and Hermione having another relationship has been done in similar situations so often, but it wouldn’t have meshed well here since Hermione had never meant to break things of permanently with Ron, but was giving him the space she thought he needed before they could move forward. And please, don’t be harsh on Mrs. Granger! She’s suffered a severe and unexpected emotional blow, and Hermione is an adult living on her own; if Hermione was still a minor she would have put her first even if she was struggling with coping. But since Hermione isn't, it’s perfectly understandable that she needs to put her own mental health first--something Hermione understands even if it makes her feel sad.**

 

 

 

 

 

 


	5. Emotional Shell Game (With Coworkers Like This, Who Needs Enemies?

**A.N. Back again! I think this might be the last, or second to last chapter before the holidays; I’m going to be doing a lot of outreach work in the next month (food, winter clothing, etc), and it’s going to cut pretty deeply into my writing and internet time, plus going beyond the strain of what my doctor has warned me. But there’s a need, so thank you for being understanding! Now, about the story.**

**Story Notes: Going through this kind of thing is hard as hell. Even at the best of times, when you have the love and support of loved ones, and professional care. Because, unfortunately, you don't live in a bubble. There are going to be negative people and situations out there that can trigger you like a five year old pumping a water gun. And of course, there are also the situations that rightfully anger or frighten you--and would do so even if you had perfect mental health. Navigating those situations can be hard, trying to figure out if that was the way you would have reacted naturally, or to that extent. Up until now in the story, Ron has been in generally ‘safe’ settings. This chapter marks the beginnings of his experiences in the workforce.**

**Two things people have mentioned to clear up! Yes, given the timeline, both Ron and Hermione are about 22. I think that detail might have gotten accidentally erased from an earlier draft; thanks for asking so I could clarify! Second, some people aren't sure why Hermione didn't tell the Weasleys about her father. For one thing, grief can be deeply personal. When you're trying to hold it together, sometimes you really don't want the input or concern of other people--dealing with their emotions can be too much on top of yours, especially for people that need to make sense of things for themselves first. And another key motivation is that she knew she wasn't ready to have any kind of discussion about it with Ron; the things they needed to address were going to be hard enough already, and with her emotions high, there was a good chance for a fight to erupt. Telling Harry or his family would put them in a position of having to hide something from Ron--something he doesn't handle well. It would be unfair, Hermione knows it would make him feel as if they were more loyal to her. Also, don't think this point won't crop up again; sometimes strong feelings like this have to be dealt with in stages over time.**

 

 

The cold, slightly mushy sandwich was a flavorless blob in Ron’s mouth, and he almost gagged at the heavy handed use of mayonnaise. Lip curled in disgust, he shoved it back into the brown paper sack, deciding that he’d stick to the small packet of crisps; they at least couldn't ruin that. He opened it and popped one into his mouth.

Stale.

It followed the sandwich, and he Vanished the whole thing, ignoring his stomach’s rumble of protest. It didn't help that he should be enjoying a decentish lunch with Hermione right now. But early that morning they had been informed that they would be out in the field all day, so he had regretfully sent a note telling her he couldn't make it. At least she had seemed disappointed and not relieved, and she had understood it couldn't be helped. Still, every little thing felt like it was going wrong today, and he was grumpy and out of sorts. 

“Almost enough to make you wish for cold, soggy mushrooms isn't it?” Harry asked, following Ron’s example with his own meal.

“At least _then,_ there was a reason for the food to taste like crap,” Ron agreed. “I think they're doing it on purpose. What I’d like to know is why those of us who weren't getting our turn until after lunch had to come for the whole thing.”

“I know. I’d rather be stuck with the cold case files, if it came right down to it.”

“You might get your wish, Potter, depending on your performance!” Someone barked from behind them, and both Ron and Harry to find Auror Selby glaring down at them, his silver mustache bristling like an old fox. 

“Yessir. Sorry, sir,” Harry said, not wanting this ordeal to be any worse than it already was.

“Good. Weasley, you have any complaints to add?”

Ron thought about it, tempted to let loose with what was on his mind. Thinking better of it, he finally muttered, “No, sir.”

But apparently he had taken too long; Selby’s eyes narrowed. “Hn. You two are up next, then. Standard hostage situation, unknown number of perps.”

Oh, well, that wasn't too bad--

“Pethwick is with you.”

Fuck. 

“I’ll go let him know so we can get started,” Harry offered, his eyes silently asking Ron if he was going to be alright.

“Sure. I’ll go ahead and Apparate to the site, and we can form a plan there,” Ron said, shrugging fractionally to say he didn't have much of a choice. 

They were already at one of several properties owned by the Ministry for the purpose of Auror training; this one was a large warehouse, while the one he and Harry would be using was a standard house in a fairly isolated area. The layout of each building could be changed enough to make it unpredictable, but they stayed true to their original purpose, so trainees could get a feel for what methods suited various locations. 

Ron landed at the edge of the site, near the trees; he waved to Darren Etherton, a senior Auror who was supervising today.

“You up, Weasley? Don't tell me they're sending you in alone,” Etherton asked, walking over to join him.

“No, I just came ahead. Harry’s going in with me.....”

“Not much of a challenge, then. I expect if there was ever a guaranteed pass--”

“And Pethwick.”

“You're fucked,” Etherton sighed. Even those most charitable of Aurors were wearing thin when it came to Pethwick.

“Don't I just know it,” Ron grumbled. “Anyway, we’re supposed to be doing a run through for a standard hostage situation, unknown number of perps,” he relayed, so Etherton could set it up.

 

“That’s what the last batch had, so you're good to go. Just signal when you're ready.”

“Thanks. It might take a few minutes, but I’ll give you a shout.”

Etherton waved, and wandered back over to one of the trees, leaning against it and pulling a rolled up magazine out of his cloak.

 

Harry and Pethwick Apparated in, And Ron nodded at Harry, trying to keep a neutral expression on his face. One look at Pethwick’s small, smug grin, and his cocky swagger, and Ron felt his jaw tighten, his right hand clenching into a fist in his pocket. Merlin, he was such an insufferable little prig! He was one of those bastards that acted like he was levels above you and his shite didn't stink. It would be one thing if he could live up to that--or had done at least one thing to account for that arrogance--but he had yet to pull off even a minor mission without one of his teammates having to cover his arse. Ron suspected he must have some pretty heavy connections to have made it this far; there couldn't be any other explanation. 

From a distance, Ron listened to himself lay out a plan with Harry, both of them trying to get Pethwick to listen with varying levels of success. He wished that they had a fourth member, but realistically things didn't always work out, and one of your team could be incapacitated......or worse. It was decided that Harry would take the back while Ron took the front, with Pethwick acting as Ron’s backup--Harry would owe him for that. They got into position, and signalled over to Etherton that they were ready.

 

 

Less than ten minutes--a new record--Ron stormed out of the house, eyes wild, hair slightly singed, and a string of curses streaming from his lips. 

“Ron? What the hell happened?” Harry yelled, jogging around the corner of the building. “I saw something explode, and heard you yell to get out.”

“Where is that fucking twat?” Ron roared, ignoring Harry as his eyes zeroed in on Pethwick, who was being helped out of the house by Etherton.

“You! I'm gonna fucking _murder_ ya!”

“Easy there, Ron,” Pethwick smirked. “You're looking a little crispy around the edges.”

“Care to inform us why such a simple exercise was botched so fast?” Selby asked, having arrived while Ron and the others were inside. 

“How? Oh, I'll tell you how!” Ron said in a withering voice, his jaw thrust out aggressively. “This living embodiment of incompetence can't even perform as a reliable backup! He didn't wait for my signal. He didn't follow procedure _at all._ He decided that _he_ should be the one in the lead, and barrelled on ahead.And to top it off, he gave me the fucking all clear sign, when he hadn't even checked thoroughly! The damn traps went off right in my face! If this had been a real mission, we’d all be dead, victim included!”

“But it wasn't a _real_ mission,” Pethwick smirked. “If it had been--”

“If it had been, you'd be just as incompetent, as you've already proved on other missions,” Ron said icily, his eyes like flint. “Someday, you're going to get people killed! All because you don't give enough of a damn to do your job right! I’m sick of you dragging everyone down, and I’m sick of having to cover your worthless arse!”

“Oh, please! As if I even needed to--what’s wrong, can't the great Ron Weasley and Harry Potter get the job done by themselves? Surely, you don't need us lowly--”

“When the hell have I--or Harry--ever said anything like that?” Ron snapped menacingly, advancing to loom over Pethwick--who tried not to show the foot plus in height difference bothered him. “We put in the time and effort it takes to be good at this, but we aren't bloody infallible! Or immortal, for that matter; we rely on the rest of the team to do their part, just like everyone else.”

“Maybe you shouldn't have become an Auror, if you weren't prepared to pay the ultimate sacrifice!” Pethwick blurted, sweat beading his upper lip.

Ron looked at him with disgust, the corner of his lip curled up. “I know the risks, you ignorant sod! And if it comes down to it, I’m willing to lay it on the line, even for a worthless--and I don't mean your mum should've swallowed, she should've _spit_ \--little shitestain like you. Missions go wrong all the time. Suspects go for the kill when you aren't expecting them to. Mistakes happen. But I’ll be damned if I go out just because a lazy arse like you can't be bothered to do his job! I’d rather have Edwards on my team--he might be clumsy, but by Merlin he _tries,_ and he doesn't make the same mistake twice. But you? I’m done.” Ron spit to the side. “I’m going back to the office to get some actual work done, and I’m saying here and now, I won't go on a mission that has you as a member. And I’ll be doing my best to make sure you get put behind a desk, where you aren't a danger to anyone else.”

With the barest of nods to Selby, who had been watching the whole thing with narrowed eyes, Ron Apparated back to the Ministry, stalking all the way to his cubicle--and thankful he was the only one in. He punched the wall, then quickly repaired the damage (damn flimsy construction!), throwing himself into his seat. As some of the anger began to leave him, panic set in. What had he done? Flipping out like that in front of Selby had been one of the worst things he could do--especially right now while tensions were running high. He felt dizzy and light headed, his hands sweatily gripping the edges of his desk. He was so deep in his own thoughts that he didn't hear Harry arrive, until he spoke from behind him.

“Ron? You alright?” Harry asked, his voice full of concern.

Ron jerked back, his chair nearly rolling out from under him. “Fuck! That’s the second damn heart attack you've given me this week!”

“Sorry, sorry. I just wanted to check on you. Y’know, make sure you hadn't come back here and set fire to Pethwick’s cubicle or anything.”

“Tempting, but no. Bloody hell, I’m too busy worrying about where I’m gonna find another job.”

Harry’s eyebrows came down in a sharp V. “What? Don't tell me you're quitting!”

He shook his head dolefully. “No, but I expect Selby’ll be popping his wide arse back here to tell me I’m fired. What am I gonna do, Harry? I guess I could try to get George to let me work more hours, but what if that doesn't work out? My savings will run out. I’ll lose my flat. I’ll have to live under a bush somewhere--and Hermione’ll have to explain to people why she’s dating the smelly wizard who goes around talking to himself.” He began speaking more rapidly, his words blurring together, making it even harder to breathe.

“Ron, take it easy!” Harry cried, alarmed. “It’s not that bad! Why are you so upset? No one was going to lose their job over not doing well today--”

“I don't mean that! I mean about tearing Pethwick a new one! I shouldn’t’ve lost my temper--”

“Why not? If you hadn't said it, I would've.”

At Harry’s words, he was brought up short. “You would've? Really? You don't think I was, you know, over reacting?”

“Hell no! You didn't say anything that wasn't true! And you didn't even hit him, although he was practically about to piss himself just from the way you were looking at him. And i know Selby can be harsh, but before I left, he went over to talk with Etherton and the other senior Aurors that were inside to see what happened. You know he can come across as a right bastard, but he’s always been fair when it comes down to it.”

“But you're sure? About my temper, I mean. I don't--I can't tell anymore if what I’m getting mad at is normal or not. At least, not till after......I just........I dunno. I’m confused.” He sighed in frustration. How was he supposed to manage like this? He couldn't rely on other people telling him if every emotional response was the right one.

“Do _you_ think you overreacted?” Harry asked. “What do you think you should've done differently?”

Ron shrugged. “No, I......I don't think I did. He really could end up getting someone killed, and he’s not even trying. If he was just shite at the job, it would be one thing, but......he just doesn't care. And this job is dangerous enough without that; it’s not fair to anyone else. I guess I could’ve just made a formal complaint or something.”

“Maybe. But that might’ve been blown off. Or Pethwick might think he could do whatever he wanted, and no one would stand up to him. Who knows? Maybe getting chewed out like that will get him to shape up. And like you said, if he goes on the way he has been, someone will get killed. I think that's enough reason for justifiable anger. Besides, if something like that happened, I don't think you could live with it if you hadn't tried your best to stop it.”

One of Ron’s fingers traced over a long scratch in the top of his desk, the slightly jagged edges of the wood catching on the skin. Slowly, he nodded. What Harry said made sense. “Yeah. Yeah, you're right. I just wish.......the timing isn't so great right now, for me to get mad. Even over things that are alright to be mad about. It makes trying to figure out everything else even harder.”

“I’d say maybe take some vacation time, but I have a feeling you won't go for that, will you?” Harry asked, smiling slightly.

“No!” He shook his head, the panic that had started to recede rushing back. “No, I can't do that, Harry. I’d feel like.....I’d feel like I was even more out of control than I am. Useless.”

“Ron, a few weeks off doesn't mean you're--”

“I know,” he hurriedly interrupted. “But I’d still feel that way. And right now, I really don't need that--I need things to feel as normal as they can. Maybe I will take some time off at some point, but it doesn't feel right, right now.”

Harry stared at him a few minutes, gauging him. “Alright. If that’s what works best for you; I’d probably do the same, to tell the truth. Just remember that it’s an option if you need it.”

“Yeah, sure. No worries. Besides, I have an appointment tomorrow, so I couldn't really just walk out now, and then be seen here tomorrow.”

“Guess not. Do you think he’ll have some ideas for things you can do to help?”

Ron shrugged, something he felt like he was doing a lot of lately, both mentally and physically. “I dunno. I hope so. I know he can't just say, ‘here, do this,’ and everything is suddenly gonna be fixed, but I’d like to feel like I was _doing_ something.”

“This is probably about the time that Hermione would say you _are_ doing something just by seeing a Healer, but as I recall, that kind of thing doesn't exactly make you feel better.”

He smiled a little at that. “Poor Hermione. She’s right and all, but we don't make it easy on her, do we?”

“Good thing she loves a challenge. Well, if you're alright, I’m going to slip back and see if I can find out how things are shaping up for Pethwick. Selby was giving him The Look before I left, so that’s promising.”

“Really? Then I might not be sacked after all--unless he decides to toss us out together.”

“With your success rate on cases? I highly doubt it. I’ll let you know tonight--or I’ll owl you, since I promised Ginny we’d go out--but I don't think you should worry.”

“But I’m so good at it,” Ron said dryly. “Fine, go ahead and send an owl. You and Gin should have a night without the family right there with you. I think I’ll try to take my mind off things by figuring out how I’m gonna start Dad’s building,” he continued, knowing very well that he’d more than likely end up sitting in his chair and worrying this thing to death.

“Not seeing Hermione tonight, then?”

Ron glanced back down at the desk. “Ah, no. I’m not feeling so hot, and I don't want to ruin things again, after the last two nights. Isn’t there a Muggle saying about three hits?”

“Three strikes, but I really don't think Hermione’s counting. But I’m sure she’ll understand if you really don't feel up to it.”

He just nodded. Hermione might be understanding, but he didn't want to strain that. 

Once Harry had left, Ron decided to clock out as well, and gathered his things. He didn't feel like talking to anyone, or to sit around feeling them staring. He stood up and slowly walked out of the room, ignoring the heavy, constricting sensation in his chest, pretending it wasn't a struggle to breathe.

 

 

Hermione finished tidying up her desk for the evening, glancing at the clock every few moments. She hadn't heard from Ron since he had let her know he wasn't going to be able to make lunch. Now she wasn't sure if they were doing anything tonight, and she was hesitant to ask. It was wonderful being able to do things with him again--even though they had seen each other on a regular basis after the breakup, it wasn't the same--but she didn't want to smother him, or come across as clingy. Both of them would still need personal space, and she didn't want to make him feel like she was invading his. On the other hand, she didn't want him to think that she didn't care enough to make contact, either. Perhaps it would be best if she just sent a message saying she hoped his day went well, and let him indicate if he wanted to talk face to face, or just send a return letter. Yes, she thought, that should be about the right balance. With a satisfied nod, she grabbed her things, and was just about to move to the door when Harry walked in. 

“Harry! I wasn't expecting you; Glad you dropped by though, since I wanted to apologize again for Flooing you in a panic last night.”

Harry waved it off. “Nothing to apologize for. Like Ron said, there wasn't much else you could do, was there? He wasn't responding to talking to him, and he was just getting more and more upset. And it’s not like being Stupefied actually hurts, unless you land on something hard.”

She bit her lip, tugging on one of the strands of hair that had fallen over her shoulder. “I know. I know, technically. I still feel bad about it though, and it’s not something I want to have to do again--I’m hoping his Healer can come up with something, but if not, I plan on doing some research. Last night was a sort of desperate situation, but in certain places it just wouldn't work, and I don’t want to risk hurting him.”

“I guess I can see how it might be a problem--definitely couldn't do it on missions. But he usually doesn’t get worked up to _quite_ that point, so at least it shouldn't come up much.”

“Except when it comes to me,” she said glumly. “I hope I’m not making things worse for him. Are you sure he was alright afterwards? I know you were out today, but he wasn't upset about seeing me again, was he?”

“Hermione, don't think like that!” Harry said, putting a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Ron thought it was for the best, too. He couldn't stop himself, and we all know if there’d been a different way, you’d’ve done it. It wasn't even _you_ that upset him; it was just......the news.”

“I didn't want to tell him yet,” Hermione said haltingly, still uncomfortable about the subject. “I knew he would be upset, and I honestly understand why--I would be too, if the situation was reversed, but--”

“But it’s not anyone else’s business if you're not ready to talk about it,” Harry interrupted gently. I won’t lie. I was hurt--so was Ginny--that you felt like you had to handle it alone. But as long as you were.....well, managing to make it alright day to day, it wasn't our decision to make. I think Ron’s just afraid of how much he’s missed, and that he’s let you down.”

Hermione shook her head. “I just don't want him to think that--that I was hiding things from him. I just.......I couldn't deal with it. Not out loud. If we had been together, I would have. And it would have been nice, because I know he would have been there for me. But with the way things were.....it wasn't the right time to go to him with it, or to risk someone else telling him. I just hope he can understand.”

“He does! He said himself that it wasn't so much the fact that he _was_ upset that bothered him, just how over the top his reaction was. I mean, When Ron gets mad--his normal mad--he might get a little loud, but he can carry on a conversation, even if it’s heated. Or he can go off by himself and try to cool off.”

“That’s the thing. I don't expect Ron to never get mad, or upset. That’s just......not human. And this time, I could tell that it was a mix of both a legitimately upsetting situation, and things spiraling out of control, but I’m not sure if I’ll always be able to tell. I can’t just say, ‘oh, it’s because of his issues’ every time he’s upset. Nothing gets solved that way, and it sort of trivializes his feelings. But I also have to take into account that just like last night, sometimes his reactions can be more intense than he means for them to be--that he’s honestly upset, but can’t express it right. I’m afraid at some point, I’ll mess up.”

“He said something similar today,” Harry admitted with a heavy sigh. “Not about you messing up, but about being mixed up about his feelings--when it’s him being upset, or when it’s the.....whatever is wrong with him taking control.”

“So he was still upset about last night, then?”

“What? Oh, no. This was something that happened today. It’s what I came by to tell you, actually.”

“Something happened? Is Ron alright?” Hermione asked, instantly worried. 

“He’s fine! I mean, sort of. He’s not hurt or anything, and it wasn't like last night. You know how we were going to be doing mock missions today, right?”

“Yes, Ron mentioned that,” she said, wishing Harry would get to the point.

“Well, Ron and I were on the same team, but so was Pethwick.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Isn't he the little scab that gave Ron such a hard time during training, and who never makes any effort at all during missions?”

“That’s the one,” Harry said heavily. “Well, Ron wasn't too pleased about getting stuck with him, and neither was I for that matter, but we were making the best of it. But true to form, he didn't follow the plan, made us fail, and let Ron walk right into some traps that nearly took his eyebrows off. I think this was one too many times for Ron, because he told him in no uncertain terms what he thought of him, and made it pretty clear he shouldn't even be on the force at all. The little prick nearly shat himself, with Ron looming over him like that, and Selby heard every word, so Ron’s worried that he’s going to get fired for losing his temper.”

“But he didn't hit him or anything, did he?” Hermione asked, confused. 

“Nope, just verbally ripped him a new one, but everything he said was true.”

She shook her head. “Then I don’t understand what the problem is. From everything the two of you have told me about him in the past, Ron had every right to be angry. Your job is dangerous, so how can you trust your life with someone like that?”

“That’s what I told Ron!” Harry said, sounding slightly frustrated. “He didn't do anything wrong--if anything, it needed to be said before something horrible happened. But Ron’s frustrated because he’s so mixed up right now, trying to figure out how to sort his own reactions from whatever it is that’s affecting him. I mean, he had to ask me more than once if what he did was too much, but that’s the kind of thing you have to decide on yourself.”

“I don’t think anyone likes being told what’s the right way for them to feel,” Hermione said darkly, thinking back to her father’s funeral, and several distant well meaning, yet highly annoying relatives. 

“Speaking from years of personal experience, no, they don't,” Harry said with a sardonic smile.

“I’m so sorry, Harry; I know I could be sort of....intense about that when we were younger,” Hermione apologized, knowing there had been numerous times when she’d unintentionally been too forceful in trying to ‘help’ Harry.

“Don't worry about it,” he shrugged. “You always meant well.”

“Oh, Merlin,” she groaned. “Even worse than I thought.”

“Nah. Well. Maybe at the time......but it all worked out. As for Ron, I think so much has happened so fast, it’s been hard for him to sort things out. Once he starts having regular sessions, and someone with experience helping him to figure out how to do it by himself, he’ll feel better about it.”

“I guess that explains why I never heard anything from him once he got back, then. Has he already gone home?”

“A few hours ago. There wasn't really anything to do in the office he couldn't do from home, anyway, and it was probably best if he didn't see Pethwick again. He was still sort of......rattled, but he should be alright.”

Hermione bit her lip. “Although the irony of saying so after what we had just discussed isn't lost on me, do you think I should stop by his flat and check on him?”

Harry opened his mouth, then hesitated. “I’m not sure. I know he wanted to be alone earlier, but that might have changed by now and Ron isn't so great when it comes to reaching out when he needs it. But if he _does_ still want to be alone, going might just make him mad.”

“I know,” she sighed. “I don't want to overstep myself, but I don't want him to think I don't care enough to check, either. I hate to think of him sitting all alone in his flat if he's not doing well. I think I’ll just stop by and knock on the door, and if he doesn't want to talk, I won't push him.”

“That should be fine, as long as you listen to what he says. Although he might be a bit snappish.”

“If you poke your head into the lion’s den, don't complain when it gets bitten off,” Hermione said philosophically. After all, that was the risk she took by dropping in unannounced. “Thanks for stopping by, Harry. And you've been very kind, letting me and Ron have some time alone together, but please don't feel like you can't join us for lunch anymore.”

“You two needed it. Just like I did with Ginny right after the war, to.....well, get everything straight between us. Don't worry, I don't plan on making it a permanent arrangement; I’ll be back as usual in a day or two.” He glanced at his watch. “Damn, it’s getting late, and I promised Gin I’d get home in time to change so we could go out for dinner. See you later, and Floo me if things don’t go alright with Ron!” He gave her a quick one armed hug, then turned to dash out of the room.

Hermione followed at a slower pace, still thinking about Ron. She knew his flat was heavily Warded, but even if it wasn't, it felt rude to just appear without being invited, or having moved back to that stage in their relationship where permission to come right in whenever they felt like it was granted. And to be honest, she was a little nervous. She had never actually been inside of Ron’s flat; he had invited her along with Harry a few times, but it had always felt sort of......forced, and so she had always found a reason to decline, or only stay a moment or two. Now that things were better between them, she thought things might be different, but she still wanted to approach it in a way that he could say no if he wasn't ready for that step yet. His attitude so far had lead her to believe that wouldn't be the case, but better safe than sorry; especially if he already wasn't doing well tonight. 

 

She Apparated outside of his door, happy that this was a Wizarding building, since it wasn't an area that she really wanted to be alone in an alley. The hallway was dark and rather dingy, and the faint scent of stale litterbox wafted from behind one of the doors. Wrinkling her nose, she knocked briskly on the door. After a few minutes with no answer, she decided to try once more, just in case he hadn't heard her. 

“What do you want?” Ron’s voice snapped from behind the door, the unexpected harshness making her startle.

“Ron? It’s me, Hermione. Is it alright if I come in?” She asked, already prepared for him to say no.

“.......What did you give me to eat when I came over to your flat the other day?”

She blinked, surprised at the question. “Those chocolate biscuits you like. Oh, and a Butterbeer.”

Immediately the door swung open, and Ron gave a quick look up and down the hall before his gaze settled on her. “Hermione? What are you doing out here?” He asked, sounding much more pleasant. 

At the change in tone, she realized that he hadn't known who it was when he called out earlier, which made her feel better. “I didn't want to Apparate in on you without warning--not that I thought I could get past your Wards even if I had tried.”

“Here, come on inside,” he said, standing back to let her in. “I do have a shite load of Wards, but I have ‘em set up to let you in. Didn't I ever tell you that?” He asked as he shut the door behind them.

“No, you hadn't. Still, I didn't want assume anything, since you hadn't even invited me yet.” 

“Could’ve sworn I told you,” he muttered, half to himself, then seemed to focus on the second part of what she had said. “I was going to soon, once I'd.....you know, cleaned the place up a bit,” he said, gesturing around him.

Hermione took in her surroundings, noticing at once that the horrible smells lingering in the hall were nonexistent in here. The room was small, and sparsely furnished. Not too surprising, since Ron had never been the interior decorator type; what was surprising was how clean it was. There _was_ something odd about it that took her several moments to place. It was _too_ clean. As far back as she could recall, even when Ron had just finished cleaning his room, it was always at least somewhat cluttered. But there was none of that here. A sofa, a chair, a coffee table, a small desk, and a wireless. Aside from a few papers and quills on the desk, there was nothing else. No pictures or knick knacks; nothing personal about to let anyone know that someone _lived_ here, not just slept here each night. There was absolutely nothing about the place that would make you think ‘Ron’ if you looked at it. 

Aware that she was staring she said, “It looks quite clean to me. I think it would even pass one of your mum’s inspections,” she teased.

He smiled wanly, rubbing his head as he sat down on the sofa. “Thanks. Have a seat, and tell me what’s up. Did something happen? Why’d you leave work so early?”

Hermione sat down, glancing up at the plain clock on the wall in confusion. “What do you mean, early? If anything, I stayed a little later today.”

Ron’s face crinkled in confusion, as he looked up at the clock, and then down at his watch. “Oh. I guess......I guess I lost track of time; feels like it should be three at the latest.”

That didn't sound good; how often did he lose track of time like that? Unless he had been engrossed in some sort of project, it was a little worrying, coupled with his poor color and slightly unfocused eyes.

“I heard you had a rough day; want to talk about it?” She asked quietly.

Instantly his expression became more guarded, his right leg starting to bounce. “Not really. If Harry already told you, there’s not much to add.”

She opened her mouth, wanting to tell him that there were still his feelings, or his thoughts they could talk over, but his body language was screaming that he wasn't open to that right now. But he had managed to say no without snapping her head off, so she’d take that as the progress it was. Clearly, getting Ron to the point that he could open up about things was going to be a process, but she was trying to take a page from Ginny’s book and learn when to back off and when to push. Which was excellent in theory but much more difficult, she was finding, in practice.

“Alright. Have you eaten, at least?”

He gave a jerky shrug. “No. ‘M not really hungry.”

And that was it; there was only so much that her naturally bossy, well meaningly overbearing nature could bear. Briskly, she rose to her feet, headed in what she hoped was the right direction for the kitchen. 

“Ron, that's not good! Even if you aren't hungry, your body needs nourishment; especially since I bet you didn't even have a decent lunch.”

“Well, no, it was about on the level of stale field rations--but what are you doing?” Ron asked, trotting along behind her. 

“Fixing you something to eat, of course,” she answered, striding into the kitchen.

“Hermione, you don't have to--”

“Someone does; you need to eat. You're not doing it. No one else is here. So unless you want me to Floo your mum--”

“Fine! If it’ll make you happy!” Ron said, throwing his arms up in exasperation. 

“It would, thanks.”

Hermione began rooting through the fridge and cabinets, coming to the sinking realization that there was very little here that could be deemed edible. A few condiment bottles. A lone Butterbeer. Milk about a week past the expiration date. A bag of crisps with not much more than pulverised crumbs in the bottom. It was at this moment that Hermione knew that Ron didn't have people over. No friends. No flings. If he did socialize, it was always elsewhere; he didn't let anyone in. This flat was a building in which Ron existed, but didn't live. The thought caused a crushing pain in her chest, but she was careful not to let it show on her face, knowing he would mistake it for pity. 

Instead, she asked, “Ron, when was the last time you did any shopping?”

“Um, Not too long ago, I think,” Ron said, scratching his shoulder absently. “I usually have enough on hand to get by.”

She very much doubted that; Ron’s flat was most likely mouse free because they’d starve to death. 

“Well, there certainly isn't anything here for tonight; I’ll pop back home and grab a few things. Be right back.”

Not waiting for a reply, Hermione Apparated to her kitchen, immediately pulling out some staples, making sure to bring just enough that she could plausibly leave as leftovers without him thinking she was trying to coddle him. They wouldn't last him long, but long enough that he could stop at the market after work and do his own shopping. Carefully packing everything into a few small reusable shopping bags, Hermione Apparated back to his kitchen, part of her mind registering the fact that she did indeed have clearance to make it through his Wards. 

“Merlin, Hermione! Did you bring your whole kitchen?” Ron asked, eyeing the bags.

When compared with his, she supposed it looked that way, but she bit back the retort. “If you'll have a seat, it should be done pretty--oh dear!” She stopped, thinking she might have to make a second trip. “Do you have any pans?”

“Do I--of course I do! What, do you think I live on takeaway and cereal?” He asked, his tone deeply affronted.

She raised an eyebrow.

“Well, maybe for the first few weeks. But Mum refuses to let any of her kids live alone without the means to make at least one decent meal on occasion, so yes, the pans are in there,” he pointed to the cabinet in the lower left corner. “Just don't go to too much trouble, alright? I really don't feel like eating much,” he continued, sitting down at the table. 

“Just enough to hold you until breakfast. Speaking of which, I hope you don't mind a scrambled omelette,” She said over her shoulder, dicing up some onions and peppers as the sausage began to sizzle in one of the pans. 

“That’s fine. Like I said, I'm not--”

“Very hungry. Yes, I know; just humor me a little.”

With magic, Hermione was able to bring everything together smoothly, adding the crumbled up sausage and some cheese to the mixture. It might look a bit messy, but she knew from previous experience that it tasted good as being filling. She quickly toasted a few pieces of bread before plating it, sheepishly taking a small helping for herself when her stomach growled at the smell, reminding her that she hadn't eaten either. 

Ron took a forkful, his eyes lighting up as he tasted it.

“Is it alright?”

“‘S’great,” he said, swallowing. “Although I noticed you left out any mushrooms.”

“Prat,” she snorted, barely hiding a smirk as he began to eat more quickly, obviously finding out he was hungry after all as the food hit his system. As he wiped up the last few bites with a piece of toast, she reached for his plate.

He held onto it with a rueful smile. “It’s no good not saying you told me so if you're going to look at me like that.”

Hermione laughed. “Alright, I told you so! Are you happy? I was right, and you were wrong!” She said, in a sing-songing imitation of her younger self. 

 

“My childhood, rushing back to me in waves,” Ron said dryly, pretending to stare off into the distance. 

“I could make you vomit a few slugs, just to heighten the experience.”

“Only if you give yourself a tail as well.”

“We aren't quite at that point in our relationship, Ron.”

He choked on a stray chunk of sausage, and she quickly poured him a glass of water. 

“Nice to know there’s something to look forward to,” he mumbled in amusement, placing his fork on his empty plate.

Hermione began to clean up, volunteering so that she could leave some of the things she’d brought without him noticing. As she worked, she noticed him slipping back into the quiet, almost melancholy mood he had been in when she had arrived. It was disappointing, because she had wanted to talk about things with him, but she didn't want to taint her first visit with a possible argument. Right now, it was probably best to leave on a good note. He’d had a stressful day, and after eating, he would likely start to feel tired soon, so she would wait until lunch tomorrow. 

She folded up her bags and went to stand behind him, leaning over him as she put her arms over his shoulders and rested her cheek against his. Briefly, she closed her eyes, savoring the contact. 

“I’m going to go home now,” she said softly into his ear. “Please do some shopping soon--or ask your mum if she could bring you a plate of food on nights you don't feel up to cooking.”

“Don't wanna bother her. Mum shouldn't have to wait on me like I’m a child.”

“And that’s not what she would be doing. There’s no shame in accepting help, Ron--the same help that you've given all of us. And you know that she’d love to feel like she was able to do something for you.”

“I guess so.”

“Well, luckily for you, I _know_ so. Now, I’m going to go ahead and leave; drop by my office for lunch tomorrow, if you're able.”

“The bossiest witch of our age.”

Although it was a faint echo of his old playfulness, Hermione could tell it was meant fondly, and not scathingly, so she kissed his cheek before starting to pull away. 

Ron’s hand reaching up to keep hers on his shoulder stopped her, and she waited for him to speak, watching the muscles in his throat jump.

“We didn't get a chance to talk about last night,” he said, nervousness evident in his voice.

“No, but you didn't seem like you were up for it,” Hermione answered, trying to gauge his mood.

“Whether I am or not, we need to. At least, I need to apologize. I didn't....I mean, I’m not.....I know that you didn't do anything wrong by not telling me. You shouldn't have to talk about things that make you uncomfortable even to best friends--which I wasn't exactly acting like at the time. I....I would hope that if something like that happened now, you'd let me try to help--”

“Of course I would,” Hermione assured him, meaning it; that was one of the things she wanted out of this relationship, to be able to share everything, to give and receive support when needed.

“Good. And I really am sorry for last night. I don't know why I reacted like that--I wasn't even mad, I just--something about it scared me, and it was like I wasn't there--just sort of watching myself, and I couldn't stop, and I was scared that.....”

“Ron.” She tilted his head so she could make eye contact. “I’m not mad about it. I know.....I know that there are times when you can be an insufferable prat, and stick both of those large feet into your mouth. And I’m sure you’ll have those moments in the future, and you know me; I won't hesitate to call you on them. But that’s not what last night was. I was worried about you, and hopefully with treatment you’ll be able to get that under control, but I’m not going to hold it against you. Especially after you've already told me that you respect my boundaries.”

“I do! And, well, it’s not like I have much room to talk when it comes to being open with things, does it? With feelings and stuff.”

“You haven't done so well with letting people in, but you've put a lot of effort into being there for people when they need you,” Hermione said, to be fair, and also not wanting Ron to drag himself down into negativity.

“Thanks. I've tried, although.....I know I should've made more of an effort with you. Whatever else happened between us, we were friends, and I shouldn't have let it slide so much, even if I didn't realize it had to that extent. As for letting people in......either I feel too much, or not at all. I bounce back and forth so fast, and I can never tell which it'll be, so I guess I.....sort of retreat because I can't deal with it. Not that that's worked well for me, ultimately.”

Hermione rubbed her thumb along the back of his neck, the movement causing his hair to shift. She squinted at his skin; was that a new freckle? It was slightly triangular, and although it was such a minute thing to be upset about in the big scheme of things, but the fact that she had missed it--or perhaps worse, forgotten it entirely--filled her with a sense of loss. It was strange, she thought, how when you were doing fairly well handling the large, difficult things, sometimes it was the details that kicked your legs out from under you. 

“No, it hasn't worked very well for you,” she agreed. “But you don't have to do it alone anymore, and the rest of us are going to help you to get through this.”

Ron took a large, shaky breath and nodded, unable to speak. He squeezed her hand, bending his head to the side so his cheek rested against her knuckles. Hermione leaned down again, setting her chin on top of his head, and they stayed like this for awhile, taking comfort in the moment. The old, familiar contact was welcome; things weren't on track yet, but it was a breath of hope--like seedlings pushing through frozen ground. 

“I'm really going to leave now,” Hermione said with a small laugh, happy that Ron seemed regretful at the prospect, rather than relieved. “Try to come by my office at lunch; I want to hear how your appointment goes.”

“Alright. And Hermione?”

“Yes?”

“Thanks for coming by.”

“Any time, Ron.” She kissed his temple, then stepped back to Apparate away, before doing so got any harder. 

 

 

Ron sighed as she Apparated away, the flat feeling as if the life had been drained from it. He’d been shocked when she had knocked on the door, but pleased; Harry had obviously told her about what happened today, and it was nice that she cared enough to come check on him. That feeling had quickly been replaced by embarrassment when he realized how......uninviting the flat was--he didn't have anything to even offer her to drink, for fuck’s sake. He didn't have too much time to worry about it, because in typical Hermione fashion, she took over the situation. 

He hadn't realized how hungry he was until he had swallowed the first few bites; as he’d continued to eat, that sick, headache-y feeling began to dissipate, gone almost entirely by the time he’d finished eating. He’d been exasperated and mildly amused by her pushiness, and yet, in an odd way, it was also a relief. Since they had gotten back together, Hermione had been making a clear effort not to push him--just like the rest of his family and friends. But the truth was, sometimes he needed a push. He needed someone to say, ‘no, you aren't fine.’ Someone who would spur him to take care of himself, or if he couldn't, step in until he could. Even as he had rolled her eyes while she bustled about the kitchen, he had felt wanted and cared for, able to shake the sense of hopelessness that always took over when he was overwhelmed by simple tasks. 

As grateful as he was, and as much as he understood that he _did_ need that, he was also a little afraid, too. Because like they had talked about, sometimes he could be an arse. And sometimes Hermione, even with good intentions, could push too hard or at the wrong time. And finding that balance was going to be hard on them both; at some point, he knew just regular frustration and his sarcastic humor was going to take over, and it wasn't going to be like last night when he couldn't control himself. It was just going be him being a normal person with less than perfect actions. Everyone had moments like that, but between that and the other......it was going to make things difficult. And not just for Hermione, but for him. He hated having to examine every single reaction, trying to be sure if that was how he really, truly felt, or if in a few hours or days, he’d be scratching his head. wondering why he said or did something. 

Tomorrow, that was going to be the main thing he wanted to talk about, and to see if there was anything he could do to control himself when he started to feel like he had last night. He needed control, and he needed clarity while he sorted things out in his head--something to squash down the waves of fear and anger. And he would do anything to get that.

He had a feeling, though, that his options might test his resolve. 

“Why can't it be as easy as the days of giant spiders and homicidal chess sets?”

 


	6. I'm Not Sick But I'm Not Well (Side Effects May Occur)

**A.N. I’m back! I hope everyone had a wonderful holiday season-mine was good, but exhausting! Sorry it’s taken awhile to start to get back in the swing of things. Several of you expressed worry that I had forgotten or abandoned this fic; I assure you, that’s not the case! This is my baby and it WILL be finished. Unfortunately, disabilities and obligations sometimes make the process a little.....slower than I would like. But if you ever have any concerns that I’ve disappeared completely, you can always check my tumblr to see what might be up-I have anon enabled so even if you don’t have an account, you can shoot me an ask. The name is the same as here, all one word, no caps.**

**Story Notes: Meds. The bane of my existence, yet absolutely necessary to function halfway normally. I, like most people, was stubborn about the idea of taking them. Not that I thought there was anything wrong with it, per se, but having to remember them all, and keep track of the interactions, and side effects, and long term issues......it was more than what I wanted to deal with. And, of course, it’s rarely as easy as being handed one pill and having that one work. There’s allergic reactions, having to find the right combo, making sure they don’t interfere with existing meds, etc. And then some just plain have no effect at all. In the magical world, that part is similar, but since it IS magic we’re dealing with here, things of course won’t correlate exactly. Things may be very odd, or work faster than they do in real life-think Skele-Gro-and when we get to the therapy aspect, I don’t picture it as advanced as we have, so methods and attitudes might be behind the times. So please go into this knowing that you might not agree with everything that happens, or think that I didn’t do any research. I did, and for a few things I’m even deliberately ignoring my own experiences as I think they were more progressive than the Wizarding world has built up to. (Don’t worry, nothing medieval or anything like that.) Think of it as shag carpet and avocado appliances when everyone else has gone to modern, sleek chrome.**

 

 

“No. I’m not doing that,” Ron said firmly.

He was sitting in Hitchen’s office, arms crossed, mind closed. 

The morning had started out alright; he’d already been mostly awake when the owl arrived at five to remind him of his appointment, giving him time to fix a breakfast of eggs and toast before leaving for the Ministry. He’d had to duck down a different hall when he’d heard footsteps behind him, but he’d still managed to make it on time, the secretary waving him through when he entered. 

 

 

“Good to see you, Ron. Glad you decided to come back; a lot drop out after the first meeting,” Hitchens greeted him, looking up from the notes he’d been jotting down.

“Well, I might not have, but, um, it was sort of clear over the last few days that I needed to,” Ron admitted, bouncing his right ankle, which was crossed over his left knee.

“It can be difficult when you're first becoming more aware of yourself,” Hitchens nodded.

“That’s an understatement,” Ron muttered.

“Did you bring in the vial? I'm interested in how that worked for you.”

“Oh! Yeah, it’s right here.....” Ron fished around in his trouser pocket, extracting the vial, depressed over the number of little red balls. “As you can see, I didn't do so great. I suppose I’m a pretty hopeless case.”

Hitchens took the vial, raising one eyebrow as he shook it, the red balls totaling just a shade under one fifth. “Ron,” he laughed, “It’s not unusual for patients to come in with half the bottle red; one case I had, theirs was almost entirely red. This is above average, but not alarmingly so.”

“Really?” Ron perked up at this unexpectedly positive pronouncement. “So you can cure me?”

“Well, I told you I don't like to promise that,” Hitchens said cautiously, “And a lot of it hinges on how much you work on this--both here and outside the office. I’m afraid it’s not something you can focus on for a few days and be done with. Still, I think some improvement is a reasonable expectation, from what I’ve seen so far. Why don't you tell me how things went the last few days? You mentioned that something made you think you need to be here.”

While Ron had wished the answer had been more along the lines of, ‘yes, I can have you back to normal in a few weeks,’ he hadn't really expected it. And it was better than he had feared, so all in all, he wasn't more than mildly disappointed. 

“I guess there were two--no, damn it, three--things that stood out,” Ron sighed, trying to get things in order in his head. “The first thing actually happened the night after my first appointment here. I’d spent the day with Hermione, trying to, um, reconnect, and things had been going really well. We were both a little nervous and awkward, but it was good......it was positive. Then I got a letter from my Mum, saying she wanted me to bring Hermione to dinner that night.”

“Do you generally get along well with your family?”

“What? Oh. Yeah, I do. I mean, we can get on each other’s nerves, but nothing that can't be sorted once we cool down.”

“I see. Go on.”

“Anyway, that’s when it started. I guess I was already a little on edge, first from coming here, and then being nervous about how things’d go with Hermione, but then it was like......this sort of pressure building up. I kept worrying about what would happen; thinking up all kinds of weird scenarios, was sure that everyone would be talking about me or something.”

“Did you tell Hermione how you felt?”

“Yeah. No. Sort of. I told her I didn't want to stay long if anyone got too nosey. She told me she’d come up with an excuse if I needed to leave.”

“So you did end up going?”

“We did. And it was like......like I was braced for something to happen, and I kept getting more and more frustrated when it didn't, but at the same time, sure it would, eventually. Mum took me aside to talk about something, and I thought that was it, but it was something totally different. George.....George sort of made one comment, but it wasn't anything that I would usually do more than roll my eyes at, and anyway, the subject changed pretty quick. Still, that tight feeling in my chest didn't leave all through dinner, and then.......”

“Someone finally said what you had been afraid they would?”

Ron gave a humorless laugh. “I thought so, but no. Mum stood up, with one of those excited smiles people get when there’s big news. She said someone had something to share......and that’s when I flipped out. Stood up and started yelling, making a complete tit of myself......only for it to turn out it didn't have anything to do with me; my brother and sister-in-law are having another baby.”

“Ouch,” Hitchens winced sympathetically. 

“Pretty much. You can bet I slunk out of the room pretty quick after that.”

“I think most people would. Were you able to resolve that with your family?”

“I.....I think so. I was too upset to do anything about it that night--Hermione Apparated me back to her place so I could Floo home--but I did go around and apologize to them the next day. Bill, my oldest brother, the one who’s wife is gonna have a baby, he was sort of.......well, I think I made an arse of myself when his first daughter was born, and doing it again now......I think he was sort of worried it was personal. And it’s not! He seemed to be alright when I apologized, though, but I know I need to probably make an effort there to make it more, I dunno, obvious.”

“It would be a good idea to make time for you to share some positive time with his family, yes. Still, it’s a good sign how quickly you addressed the problem.”

Ron shrugged. “Maybe. People keep saying that, but I don't really see it. It would be better if there hadn't been any problem at all.”

Hitchens leaned forward intently. “Of course it would be better, and we’ll be working on that. But Ron, you can’t just focus on the negative! Honestly, one of the biggest obstacles many of my patients face is not being able to admit when they’ve done something wrong--or if they do, then they avoid doing anything about it. You have work to do, yes, but you shouldn't brush aside the things you're doing right. You need to allow yourself the small victories, or else you’ll wind up discouraged.”

He hadn't thought of it like that. Now that he did, it made sense. It wasn't like anyone was trying to pat him on the head and say everything was all better just because he said sorry after he fucked up. They just knew that that took effort, and they appreciated the fact he was actually trying, and not just letting things slide. And really, he did need to see that as a good thing when it happened. If he only accepted never messing up at all as progress, he was going to get frustrated and overwhelmed. He already had a tendency to beat himself up when he didn't live up to the expectations he set for himself, but doing that had only ever made things worse. He needed to balance recognizing what he still needed to work on, and when he was moving in the right direction even if he hadn't reached his goals. He wasn't going to master this over night; sometimes the best he was going to be able to do was try to fix things afterwards. 

“I’ll....try to work on that. It’s just not a way I’m really used to thinking, unless I concentrate on it.”

“It takes time. Until you get to that point, if you have friends and family with judgement you trust, listen to them. Don't do it unquestioningly, but take it into consideration. Sometimes our own closeness to a situation, as well as our emotions, can blind us. A little outside perspective can help. Now, you mentioned two other instances?”

“Um. One....two.....yeah. Three. The second one, which came--just a minute--oh! Sorry, it’s hard to keep them straight. The second one was the next day. I’d gone over to Hermione’s flat, hoping to spend some time with her that didn't end in disaster. And like the day before, it started off well. We talked; talked like we hadn't in......in too long. We started to get rid of that awkward feeling. And then the subject of her parents came up--or rather it didn't, and I noticed that and brought it up myself. She told me.....”

He had to pause a minute, laning his face into the hand that was propped up on his elbow, and bit down on his knuckle. 

 

“She told me that her dad died. Nearly a year ago. And I had no clue! Even though we’d--we’d still been on speaking terms, still saw each other quite a lot--she’d been through that and I had no fucking clue.”

“That’s quite a lot to take in. I can see that even if your relationship has been strained, her well being still matters a great deal to you.”

Ron barked out a harsh laugh, shifting in his chair restlessly. “You wouldn't think that by the way I reacted. Instead of asking about her, I made it all about me and how upset I was that she didn't tell me. Yelling, ranting, I mean, I was in an almost dead panic, to the point I could barely breathe. And once I realized that it was changing those things,” he pointed at the vial “about as fast as I could blink, it got worse and spiraled totally out of control.”

“And how were you able to pull yourself out of it?”

“I, um, I....didn't. Hermione did. She.....she Stupefied me, because there wasn't any other way to calm me down, and she was afraid I was gonna hurt myself like that.”

Hitchens looked rather stunned, jerking back as his mouth flopped open and shut. After a few rapid blinks, his lips began to twitch, and he released a choked chuckle.

“Sorry, Ron, I know it’s not funny--”

“It sort of is. Now that I'm on the outside of it.”

“Yes. Well. What I mean is.......your girlfriend certainly is innovative, isn't she? I’m used to family and friends panicking and not knowing how to react, but I have to say, that’s a new one. How did you feel afterwards? Did it pick up where it left off, or did it break the cycle?”

Ron wondered if his experience was going to make some kind of treatment history. “It broke the cycle. But Hermione really didn't like doing it, and doesn't want to do it again if there’s another way. She’s worried about hurting me.”

“Under the circumstances it seems to have turned out well, but it obviously wouldn't do in many situations. She shouldn't worry about the Stupefy, though. You know how spells are about intent, and even the harshest Stupefy rarely causes even momentary damage. But we’ll definitely work an alternative. Were the two of you able to resolve things?”

He thought about it before answering. “I think so. We talked about it a couple of times, and we’re on the same page. She understands that I didn't mean to overreact like that, and that even if I didn't like it, I understood why she didn't tell me. And I know that she wasn't shutting me out specifically, that she just wasn't up to talking about it with anyone, and it wasn't a good time for us. She also let me know she wants to let me in on that kind of thing from now on, and that helped a lot.”

“Once things had calmed down, where you able to tell her how the situation made you feel?”

“Like I said, she knows that I understand--”

“No, I mean how it made you _feel._ Not just how you reacted. How did you feel when she told you?”

The chair squeaked under him as he abruptly shifted to his left, the wool of his trousers rasping against his palms as he wiped his hands down his legs in a short, jerky motion. “Well, bad. I felt bad, alright? Like I’d failed. Like I couldn't be counted on. Like I wasn't there when she needed me ag--when she needed. And I can't do that. I _can't.”_

“Did you tell her that?”

“We’ve worked it out! Things are fine, there’s nothing more to drag out of it!” Ron said tightly, his voice cracking slightly in the middle. Why couldn't they just move on?

Hitchens watched him for several long moments, as if waiting for him to continue. When he didn't, the older Auror gave a small nod. “Alright, let’s move on. What was the last incident?”

Ron gave his head a hard shake, rolling his shoulders to relieve the tension. “Last. Yeah. There was another one. It was......yesterday. I think? Yeah, it was yesterday. Dunno if you've heard, but things have pretty much been at a standstill in the department as far as major cases are concerned. It’s gotten pretty tense, and to.....punish us? Motivate us? We had to do some mock missions yesterday. Which isn't really all that bad, even if it’s annoying. Harry ‘n me, we got teamed up with Pethwick. He’s a smug little wanker that I’ve had a few run ins with before. I tried not to let it bother me. I really did. All he had to do was just follow the plan, right? But no. No, that’s too much for the twat to handle. Like every other _fucking time_ I’ve worked with him, he pulls shite that could get him and the rest of us killed. And he doesn't even care! He just brushes it off like some kind of joke!”

“Did you get violent with him?”

“I sure as hell wanted to,” Ron snapped, angry at the memory. “But no. I tore him a new arsehole verbally.....in front of a superior officer.”

Hitchen’s face creased into a frown. “I’m sorry, but I’m not seeing the problem with this situation. His actions have the potential to have very real and dire consequences in the future. Even during a contained exercise like that, things can go wrong. Were you or anyone else injured?”

“Mostly just scorched a bit,” Ron admitted, “But it could’ve been worse.”

“Then unless there’s something you haven't mentioned, I think you were well within your rights--more than that, I believe you should have said something, given the seriousness of the situation. What if, someday, he gets a team member or civilian killed?”

“That's what I thought!” Ron nodded. “It would be one thing, if he was just a bit clumsy and working on it, like one of the other blokes, but he’s just.....you can't put your faith in someone like that. Which is why I blew up and said I wouldn't work with him anymore......and that I’d do what I could to make sure he was never out in the field.”

“Has anyone gotten on your case about it? Said you were wrong?”

Tilting his head back, Ron kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling. “No. At least, not yet. I sort of walked out, so I don't know what they’ll do to me today. So far, everyone I’ve talked to seems to think I was right.”

“But you don't seem to think so. Why is that?”

There was a crack on the ceiling shaped like Harry’s scar, slightly above two faint stains that were in almost the perfect positions to be eyes. Huh. Weird. 

“Ron?”

“Huh? Oh! I guess.....no, I do think so. The thing that bothered me is that I can't really tell. Wait. That’s not it. I _know_ I was right. _This_ time. But sometimes I’m not, and I don't see it until later, or someone points it out. That bothers me. I need to be able to tell for myself. But how can I?”

“I know it sounds like a pat answer, but that’s something that will get better once we start working on it. Right now, it’s going to be very easy for you to overthink things, and you're going to learn how to step back and evaluate it objectively.”

“Maybe. It just feels like so far, there’s a lot of theory and not much practice.”

Hitchens sat back, thoughtfully tapping a quill on his desk. 

“Ah, I’m sorry ‘bout that. I didn't mean--”

Hitchens blinked, startled out of his thoughts. “Hm? Oh! No, I understand. I was just thinking about the best way to go about this, for you. It seems like you're open to this and willing to put in the effort, but I can also see that you get very frustrated easily, and then become even more upset with yourself for that. And I’m afraid that parts of this are going to be upsetting; that’s just how it is, no way around it.”

“I thought as much,” Ron admitted. “I know it won't be easy, but I’m also worried about how often it’ll set me off like the other night. Whatever that was.”

“I’m not willing at this point to make a firm diagnosis, although I do think I have a pretty solid idea. So when we talk, we’ll be covering a range of subjects. Hmmm. Yes, I think I've decided on a course of action, at least for now. I haven't done it often, but I’ve had good results.”

“That at least sounds promising. So, what is it?”

“I would like to start you out on a potion.”

“No. I’m not doing that,” Ron said firmly.

“Why is it, exactly, that you're so opposed to the idea?”

“I don't know! I just--I don't think it’s bad enough for that. I know it’s not going to be easy, but I don't want to be on a potion the rest of my life!” Ron answered, his voice growing louder.

“I realize that. And that’s not what I’m prescribing it for. My goal would be to wean you off slowly as you get better at using other coping mechanisms, understanding why this is happening, and recognizing what is likely to set you off. I’m not using this potion to mask your problems and send you on your way; just to balance out your emotions while we work on the root cause.”

“So it wouldn't be permanent, then?” Ron asked suspiciously, the urge to bolt lessening a fraction.

“Not if it isn't absolutely necessary. But Ron, would that really be such a bad thing? A man I know--not a patient, a friend--went through a similar period. The thing was, he was already married, with two small children. His was a much worse case, and his marriage was breaking up, and his children were frightened by his loud, angry outbursts. In his case, therapy only did so much, and he _needed_ that potion. With it, he was finally able to communicate better with his wife. He had more of a control on his temper, and his kids could feel like they had their dad back again. Do you think it would have been better for him to not take the potion, and let all of his relationships remain damaged?”

“I....no, of course not. But you said I wasn't that bad!”

“That’s right. Which is why I really don't think you'll need it forever. But the longer you go untreated, the harder this is going to be. If you broke a bone, you wouldn't refuse Skele-Gro. Think of this as Skele-Gro for the mind.”

“You only have to use that until the bones knit,” Ron said, knowing he was being obstinate, but not able to help himself. 

“Not entirely true. Some people with naturally weak bones or medical conditions rely on a form of it. Ron, from what I’ve gathered from you so far, you place a great deal of value on your family and friends, as well as your job. And it seems to tear you up when you're not being all you know you can be to each one. Even if it did end up being something you always needed, wouldn't it be worth it?”

“Maybe. Shite. No, not maybe; it would be. I just.....I feel like I should be able to do this. And besides, what about my job? If it gets out--”

“If it does, it isn't going to affect you as much as you think, at least not in that regard. You wouldn't be the first one, and you won't be the last. If anything, experience is proving that therapy and medication are vital for this job.”

“Really? You mean that? I know you can't give me names--wouldn't trust you much if you did--but can you swear that there are actually Aurors that take potions, who aren't--aren't--”

“Aren't stuck behind a desk?”

“Yeah,” Ron breathed out heavily. He couldn't give up being an Auror. Not right now. He felt like it was something he was actually good at. He felt useful, like he was making a difference.

“Absolutely. And not just here in England, but all over. I know that you're worried that this is going to limit you, Ron. Believe me, I understand those concerns, and I would tell you if that was likely. But this is going to do the opposite. This is going to open things up for you.”

Ron hunched forward in the chair, licking his lips as he rubbed away the tiny beads of sweat on his clammy forehead. “And the potion. You’d try to get me off of it so it wasn't forever, right? That would be a last resort?”

“I promise you that I will do my best; once you get the hang of using the other tools to help yourself, we’ll start weaning you off.”

His head bobbed in a nod, several more times than what was necessary to show he understood.

“Why don't you take a few days to think about it? Once you've made up your mind, you can come by my office, or owl me.”

“No. I mean, I--I want to. If you can, I’d like to start as soon as possible.”

Hitchens seemed surprised, then he looked down at the notes he had been taking and frowned. “I meant to ask this earlier, but got sidetracked. When you mentioned that your girlfriend was afraid of hurting you by using Stupefy, you also said she was afraid that you would hurt yourself. Should I take that to mean.......”

It took Ron several beats to get what he was saying. “What? No! No--I didn't mean _hurt_ myself, hurt myself. Just, you know, accidental. Falling and hitting my head or something.”

After an evaluating stare, Hitchens nodded. “Alright, then. Just wanted to make sure; that means that you really can take a few days to decide on the potion, if you need to. You aren't a danger to yourself or others.”

“I know. But......I think if I did, I'd end up talking myself out of it. And--and I think you're right. I'm not so great at keeping ahold of myself, and it’s worse when I think about messing up-- _knowing_ I’m gonna mess up. If there's a way to sort of, I dunno, minimize it? It would be kind of stupid not to use it.”

“Making the choice to go down a path that frightens you is never easy.”

“Well, then I guess it's good i've had so much practice, isn't it?” Ron laughed humorlessly. 

“In a way, i'd say so. Actually, what i'd like you to do tonight when you get home is to make a list of all of the worries you have about being on a potion. And then, beside it, I want you to list all the ways it will help, or how likely it is for your fears to be realized.”

“Um, will I need to bring it back here?”

“Not if you don't want to. But it might help you be more at peace with the decision, or else help you form questions about it you might want to ask.”

“Alright. But I’d still like to start today, if I can.”

Hitchens stood up and walked over to a corner of the room that was slightly partitioned off, where Ron couldn't see what he was doing. After a few moments, there was the sound of a cabinet being unlocked, and the rustle of bottles. The cabinet clicked close, and Hitchens walked back into view. As he moved towards his desk, Ron noticed for the first time that he had a slight limp.

“We don't have quite the variety that Muggles have for this sort of thing, but magic does give us a few edges. The first step is finding the one that’s right for you, and then adjusting the dosage. I want you to follow the instructions on this sample vial,” he said, holding out a small vial filled with a purplish liquid, “And I’d like you to start it on your lunchbreak, preferably when you can be around someone else soon after taking it.”

“Why? Is something going to happen?” Ron asked, eyeing it suspiciously even as he accepted it.

“If it works correctly, within about an hour you should notice a few changes; you should feel calmer, less worried or overly focused on negative thoughts. Your mood should be slightly more pleasant, and you should start noticing things in a more positive light, or newly awakened interest. I have to warn you though, just like with any potions, there could be side effects or an allergic reaction.”

“Oh. Sort of the way my mum blows up like a toad if she takes anything with nettles in it,” Ron nodded.

“Exactly,” Hitchens agreed. “Which is why I’d prefer you to be around someone you know, who can help you if you notice anything physically wrong, or if it has the opposite effect on your mental state. It will also be easier to go home straight away to rest if you need it, and by then I’ll have sent a message to your supervisor--who must respect your privacy--to let them know that you have medical clearance without asking for permission.”

“And they can't sack me for it? Or dock my pay, or--or spread it around what’s going on?”

“Not without dealing with me. And let me assure you, that’s a mistake they made early on, and haven't dared to repeat,” Hitchens replied, his lips stretching into a wide, predatory smile, his eyes hard and flinty.

It was a look that would give pause to most, and Ron was quite glad that Hitchens was on his side.

“Alright. So, if it does work like it’s supposed to, then what?”

“Then go about your day as usual, and there will be an Owl with a full days’ dose for you in the morning. Go ahead and take it as directed, then check in with me before work. Over the next few days, we’ll work on adjusting the dosage, and once we have that fairly evened out we can work on coping mechanisms and getting to the root of your issues. Sound alright?”

Ron rolled the vial in his palm, watching the liquid slosh from side to side. Truth be told, he still wasn't wild about the idea. Part of him--a large part--wanted to hand it back and say he’d just try harder. But.....that wasn't going to wash, was it? Because then he was basically saying he could have been fine all along if he’d just tried. And that wasn't true. He’d been trying--as hard as he could, when he was aware enough that he needed to try--and it just wasn't working. This......this could help him get where he needed to be, or at least help him hold on until they found another way that worked for him. He knew that if things went south later and he hadn't taken this option when he could, he’d most likely blame himself and never move on. Hitchens sounded like he knew what he was doing, and he seemed pretty sure this would help, and wouldn't be permanent. Of course, Ron could see why he couldn't say so for a fact; he realized there was always the chance he wasn't going to get better.......but he hadn't sounded like Healers always do when a case is hopeless, so his odds had to be pretty good, didn't they? If he wanted his life to go in the direction he wanted, he was going to have to take that risk.

“Sounds good,” he said, with more confidence than he felt, but figured that would come in time.

“Good. I think that’s all for today, unless there was anything else you feel like you want to talk about?”

He opened his mouth, then hesitated. “I guess not. Nothing pressing, at least. Maybe once I’ve gotten used to the potion.......but for today I think I’m fine.”

“Alright. Be sure to let me know if you have any problems, then.”

 

Ron nodded and thanked Hitchens for the potion, then stood up and left, tucking the vial carefully into an inner pocket. He still had some time before the others came into the office, so instead of focusing on any of the files he had with him, he spread them over his desk, then stared into space and waited for his heartbeat to settle. It was just a potion, after all, and nothing to get worked up about. It wasn't like he had to stay on it if he didn't like it. He licked his lips, smoothing down the rough skin. If it didn't work, it didn't. It didn't change anything and he wouldn't be any worse off than he was before. No one other than the people he wanted to tell would even have to know--well, except for his superiors, but legally they had to keep their mouths shut, which was all he cared about. 

Voices startled him out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see a group of Aurors coming in, those that were morning people loud and smiling, and those that weren't, grumbling and shuffling. Harry was near the front, yawning and combing his fingers through his hair, his glasses slightly crooked on his face. Ron started to wave to him to get his attention--

“Weasley! My office, now!” Selby’s voice cracked out as he strode through the door, briskly marching towards the door that led to the private offices. 

He shot a look at Harry, who, through jerky shoulder movements and eyebrow manipulation, seemed to be trying to say he didn't have anything to worry about. Not entirely sure Harry knew what he was talking about, he stood up, ignoring the silence as the other Aurors watched him trudge off to what, they probably thought, was his imminent doom. His boots stuck to the cheap flooring as he closed the door to the outer offices behind him and walked, slowly, to the third office on the left. Since his appearance had been ordered he didn't bother with knocking but went straight in, his spine rigid more from nerves than any attempt at standing at attention. 

Selby looked up at him from his desk, then continued to finish the short note he had started before addressing Ron. “Sit down, Weasley. I don't want to break my neck talking to you.”

“Yessir,” Ron answered automatically, taking one of the seats in front of the desk, trying very hard to hold his body still. 

Washed out blue eyes stared back at him impassively, giving nothing away--like looking into two iced over windows, and not being able to see what’s inside. Ron felt his stomach churning, and had to tamp down on the urge to yank the vial from his pocket and chug the contents. 

“I suppose you know why you're here?” Selby growled. 

“Yessir, I reckon I do.”

“I should hope you'd have the brains to figure that out. So, before I get started, is there anything you'd like to say? An apology? A retraction?”

Ron felt his mouth start to flop open. An apology? For that little--he snapped his mouth shut, his eyes narrowing in irritation. “Nossir,” he bit out.

Selby’s mustache bristled like a porcupine. “No? No? You're telling me that even though I am generously giving you a way out of this with no recriminations, you're refusing to take it? Are you so bent on playing the diva that--”

“I've never had a need to show off, sir!” Ron snapped.

“Oh? So this isn't some ploy of yours to make sure Pethwick doesn't get to share in the glory?”

“First of all, I don't think of it as _glory,”_ Ron answered, struggling to keep his voice even. “And even if I did, I’d be pretty hard up to need it from an exercise. But everything I said about Pethwick being too dangerous to work with is the truth, and I stand by it. _Sir.”_

Selby stood up, and walked over to the window, his back to Ron. “Do you know what we look for in a good Auror, Weasley?”

“I....I’m not sure, sure,” Ron said, disconcerted at the subject change. 

“We need Aurors who follow orders. When I give a command, I want those under me jumping to do it before I even finish my sentence. Maybe that seems harsh. I don't care. Because in dire situations, that quality saves lives. Understand?”

“.......Yessir.” This was it. He was getting the sack. He felt like the world was melting around him, but he'd be damned before he apologized. 

“And up until now, that’s a quality you, for the most part, have had. I've tested you. I've pushed your limits. I've given you the grimiest, most unpleasant tasks. And while you might do your share of grumbling,” here some amusement seemed to leak into his voice, although Ron couldn't be sure, “You've done what I ask and haven't halfarsed it.”

Selby turned around, and Ron braced himself for the rest. Turn in your uniform, collect your pay, think of a way to explain to your family and friends why you're such a tit and failure.

“But now, Weasley, you've gone above that.”

“I.....Sir?” 

“You spoke up. Specifically, you spoke up at the right time, about the right thing. You don't whine, Weasley. You don't come around with complaints like a tyke snivelling at their mum. But you saw something that was going to put not only yourself, but potentially every Auror on the force--as well as civilians--in danger, and you put your neck out and didn't budge. Now, I admit, I've had my concerns about you. You don't exactly bond very well with the others. And you don't give a lot away; you're damn good in the field but I wasn't sure until now how much thought you give to your team as a whole. All in all, I'm pleasantly surprised. You have the makings of a good officer if you keep this up.”

Ron had experienced enough in his life that there shouldn't, he thought, be much left to surprise him. But Selby was normally about as warm and emotional as a dead clam, and while his tone had been matter of fact, to Ron it was like he had fallen weeping on his shoulder and calling him a son. The knots in his chest unravelled like buttered pasta.

“Th--thank you, Sir,” he managed to croak out, at a loss for how to respond.

“That doesn't mean you can start overstepping yourself,” Selby warned. “You're still a Junior Auror, and you have plenty to learn.”

“Yessir. I'm definitely aware of that,” Ron nodded vigorously. He might have had an edge, given his......unique experiences, but there were still situations he was still learning how to handle, and the wide variety of locations and people he would have to deal with, and the various combinations in which they came.

“Good. And I suppose I don't have to tell you that none of what I said leaves this office--although I know better than to expect that to extend to Potter.”

“Yessir. And thank you, Sir.” He did indeed know; he’d had enough trouble during his training with people sure he was getting special treatment, and now that he was (mostly) past that, he wasn't keen on bringing it back up. Harry, of course, would be filled in later.

With a brisk nod, Selby began to root around in his desk. “That’s all, you can go.”

Ron stood to leave, unable to believe his luck and wanting to get out before it changed.

“Oh, and Weasley?”

Damn, almost out the door!

“Yessir?”

“About Pethwick......”

Ron turned around, giving him his full attention.

“You're not the only one who’s had concerns. He’s suspended, and under investigation. He wasn't too thrilled at the news, so you might want to watch yourself,” Selby informed him, a warning look in his eye.

“Won't say I'm sorry for him, ‘cause I’m not, but I am glad something’s being done. And......thank you for letting me know, Sir. I’ll keep an eye out.”

With a final nod of dismissal, Ron left Selby to his work, and slithered back to his desk under the watchful eyes of his coworkers. The room was silent, filled with an air of suspense. The back of his neck prickled, and even though hardly anyone could see him, he knew the rest were staring at his partitions. 

“Anyone hoping to snag my desk can sod off; I’m not going anywhere,” he said loudly.

That seemed to break the spell; conversations started back up, and the sounds of scratching quills and parchment being shuffled across desks became a steady hum of activity. He didn't have to look up to know that the person who had slipped up behind him was Harry, so he didn't jump when Harry leaned in close to whisper.

“Everything alright, mate? You looked like the underside of a fish going in.”

“Then I looked better than I felt. Everything’s fine, though. I’ll tell you later. I wanted to ask earlier, but could you have lunch with me and Hermione today?”

“Sure I can, but, I mean, do you really want me to? Is something wrong with the two of you?” Harry asked, placing a hand on Ron’s shoulder.

“Yeah, why wouldn't it be? I just have some things I’d like to tell both of you--private, like,” he said, jerking his eyes meaningfully at the rest of the room.

“Oh. Alright, then. I just wanted to make sure, since I knew Hermione was going to stop by and see you last night, and I was a little afraid.....”

That he would snap her head off, Ron finished mentally, aware that he had a problem with being short tempered if people dropped by.

“No, it was fine. Glad she did, actually. I'd wanted to be alone, earlier, but.......it felt better, with her there.”

“Well, at least one of us can manage that,” Harry joked. 

Ron was shamefully reminded of quite a few episodes when Harry, or another member of his family, would stop by only to be met with barely a few short, sharp words and a quickly closed door.

“It isn't like that,” he protested, “You know I appreciate when the rest of you try--really, I do, I just.....”

“I get it, Ron,” Harry said with a small smile as Ron trailed off. “I’m the same with Ginny. Sometimes even if I want to talk to anyone else I'm not really fit to, and she can figure out how to get through to me.”

“And even Ginny can't always manage sometimes, if her grumbling is anything to go by,” Ron said with faint amusement.

Harry shrugged. “And it'll be the same for you and Hermione, and Ginny and me’ll get to hear all about it from one or the other of you; the joys of a support system.”

“Yeah, well, I'm hoping to put that off as long as I can. Still, you're good for lunch, right? I promise I'm not asking you up to referee for us.”

“Good, because that's never done a thing for my appetite. I’ll join you two in her office, since you said you wanted to talk to just the two of us. Now, I'd better get over to my own desk before Selby pops his head out and decides we have time on our hands that he needs to fill.”

Ron turned back to his desk, and tried to concentrate on work for the rest of the morning. As usual of late, it was pretty uneventful, with the only bit of excitement coming in the form of a Wizard getting drunk in Muggle London, and performing bits of magic. Luckily not much intervention was required, since the Muggle public automatically assumed he was just a very talented street performer. He was brought back and put in a cell to sleep it off so he could pay his fine, and while Ron had been a bit jealous that two of the others had been given the job, he quickly changed his mind when he heard them complaining that the drunk had gotten sick from Apparating and vomited all over them. 

Around noon, the office conversation began to turn towards Pethwick and his conspicuous absence today--it wasn't unusual for him to be late, but he normally managed to drag himself in before noon. Deciding it would be a good time for him to slip out, he waved to Harry and signalled that he was going to grab his food and head up to Hermione’s office. Harry nodded, and with a few hand gestures told him that he’d be along shortly. 

Walking to the canteen, the vial in his pocket felt like it had grown to the size of his head, and made of lead. He kept shifting around uncomfortably, sure that everyone could see it through his robes, and knew exactly what it was for. Keeping his head down, he went through the line, snagging two bowls of beef stew, which he nearly turned over, and a salad for Hermione as well. He was about to skip past the desert when he saw that there were apple tarts, and since he knew Hermione had a special fondness for them, managed to snag the last two. 

“That looks like a healthy appetite you have there, son,” his Dad spoke from beside him as he came to the end of the line.

Ron started, leaning to the left quickly to rebalance the tray. “Fuck--ah, sorry, Dad. No, I'm having lunch with Hermione, and picked up hers.”

His dad smiled at him, falling in beside Ron with his own tray as they walked. “Good idea; that’s one young witch that’s likely to work right through lunch if someone doesn't remind her. Tell her I said hello, would you?”

“Dad, a table just opened up over there by the wall--could you grab it while I get my lunch?” Percy asked from behind them. “Oh, hello, Ron! You having lunch with us?” 

Ron lifted his tray a little higher for a moment, as if to draw attention to the extra food. “Thanks, but I’m eating with Hermione and Harry. Another day, yeah?”

“Of course, of course; anytime--if you'll excuse me, I'd better go get mine before it’s all been picked over,” Percy said with a friendly nod, before turning and cutting his way through the gathering crowd.

“Sorry, Dad. I really will have lunch with you two soon,” Ron said.

“Oh, don't worry about it! Besides,” he gave a small chuckle, “Percy’s been put in charge of a new project, and you know how he gets--I don't mind, but I suspect you'd be falling asleep in your stew when he gets going on the details.”

He shook his head. “Poor you. You've got a wide range of us to keep up with, don't you? From Percy coming up with new rules to make, and the--George coming up with new ways to break them.”

There was a slight, almost imperceptible pause in the conversation at Ron’s slip of the tongue, like your foot landing wrong on a patch of uneven ground, almost tripping but just managing to right yourself, before Arthur chuckled.

“It’s an interesting variety, I’ll give you that. Here, I’d better get over there and claim that table! See you later, Ron.”

He watched his father call out to a few of his coworkers as he walked away, and, looking back, he saw his brother’s head progressing down the lunch line. Percy was still almost unbearably keen about his job, but at least he wasn't an arse about it anymore. Things between him and their dad had gotten much better; Ron knew that even though Percy was still climbing that Ministry ladder, he made time to have lunch with Dad at least once or twice a week. 

Someone bumped his arm, and he took that as his cue to get out of the increasing foot traffic. He made his way over to the lifts, and managed to get to Hermione’s office without spilling everything. Coming down the hall, he heard a raised voice, and felt himself stiffen when he realized it was Hermione--only to relax again as he quickly realized she wasn't in danger.

The same couldn't, Ron thought with a sympathetic shudder, be said for the poor bloke she was bawling out.

“......you _mean,_ you've lost the statements? Don't you realize how vital they are?”

“Well, yes, and I could have sworn I left them on my desk the other day--” the short, beaky nosed Wizard with a bad bowl cut squeaked out from Hermione’s doorway.

“You need to work on your organization, Roger,” Hermione’s voice cut in sharply. “Beings _count_ on us to do our jobs. I need that found by the end of today--tomorrow at the latest.”

“I’ll get right on it, I promise!”

Ron stepped to the side as the other man turned and raced in his direction as if the back of his robes were on fire--and they very well could be, because Hermione sounded like she was breathing fire.

“Ah! S--sorry, can I help you?” Roger asked, wringing his hands slightly.

“Um, no, just going to take lunch with Hermione,” Ron explained for what felt like the sixtieth time today.

“Oh. I’ll leave you to it, then,” Roger said, with a look that said he clearly thought Ron was mad for doing so voluntarily. “Better you than me,” he muttered as he rushed past.

With raised eyebrows, Ron went ahead into Hermione’s office, since the door had been left open. 

“I guess the rumors about your time as Head Girl are true, then,” he said innocently, startling her from the flurry or parchment she had whirling about her desk.

She looked up, and the heavy scowl that had caused two lines to bunch between her eyes smoothed out as she realized it was him.

“Oh, no. I was much, much worse, I promise you,” she replied drily. 

“It’s because you didn't have me there, exerting the Weasley charm,” he teased, but regretted it when her eyes misted over. “Hermione, I'm sorry--I would've, but--”

Lips pressed together, she shook her head, several curled escaping from the clip that held most of it it place. “No. It’s true I wanted you there--you and Harry--but you both made the right choice. You had an excellent job opportunity presented to you, and your family.......no, you made the right choice.”

“Maybe,” he said, his voice lowering to a glum tone, “But I still......still wish I’d been with you. It wasn't easy for you, was it?”

“No. It wasn't.” She took a deep breath, and seemed to gather herself, for she continued more brightly, “But that’s all over with, and we’re together now. That’s what’s important. Oh! Here, let me clear some of this off so you don't have to stand there holding that....”

He waited while she cleared her desk, trying to gauge her reaction. He knew she had wanted him to come back for their final year, and he’d never been really sure that she had been alright with his choice not to. But he couldn't detect any sign that she was trying to hide her feelings from him; it looked like she really was being honest about that fact that although she had wanted him to be with her, she knew he'd made the right decision. 

“Ron?”

He realized he'd just been standing there, and quickly stepped forward to put the tray down. 

“You're going to make me fat,” she laughed, nodding at the apple tart.

“How do you know that both aren't for me?” He teased back, sitting down and grabbing his bowl of stew.

“Now that you mention it, I don't, although if that's the case I hope you at least let me have a bite, now that i've had to look at them,” Hermione said, tucking her napkin into her lap. “How has your morning been? You seem better than you did last night.”

The stew dripped out of his spoon, and he nearly choked on whatever broth-logged bit of veg it was that was in his mouth as he recalled his morning, and his apprehensions came back. 

“Uh, well, there’s a couple of things I have to tell you......but I'd like to wait until Harry gets here--I asked him to have lunch with us, I hope you don't mind?”

Hermione’s own food went ignored as well as she stared across the desk at him. “Harry? I mean, of course he can--but is everything alright?”

Ron pushed his bowl away slightly, thinking he’d probably need to use a heating charm on it later if he actually felt like eating. “It’s fine, I just want to tell it all at once, and it’s more private in here.”

“Ron....is it--is it....” she bit her lip, her face going pale. “It’s not your health, is it? Nothing serious or......terminal.”

“Do I look like dying man? I promise, I wouldn't pick the Ministry canteen for my last meal.”

“How am I supposed to tell? If you really want to know, your color isn't all that great! You could be, for all I know!” Hermione snapped, her voice tight.

 

Ron could have kicked himself; she was thinking about her dad--after the war, Ron knew that for months he had been paranoid someone else was going to die. Still got that way, to tell the truth. 

“Hermione, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, well, worry you. I promise it isn't anything like that. I'm just sort of nervous. But nothing’s wrong with me--nothing more than we already knew, at any rate.”

“Sorry I'm late, I just--” Harry said, coming through the door, pausing abruptly as he took in the scene before turning accusing eyes on Ron. “You filthy liar, you told me everything was fine and I wasn't going to have to sit here while the two of you had a go at each other!”

“What--but I didn't--we aren't--” Ron spluttered.

“Oh, shut the door and come in, Harry! We aren't fighting. I was just worried about what Ron has to tell us--he wouldn't say anything until you got here.”

“How do you think I've felt all morning? Hey, does it have anything to do with why you were called into Selby’s office?” Harry asked, taking the second chair and balancing his plate of fish on the desk. 

At Hermione’s increased look of panic, Ron spoke up quickly, “I'm not in trouble! Yeah, that was one of the things, Harry. It was about yesterday. For a few minutes I thought I was going to be looking for another job, but he surprised me. He said I did the right thing.”

“Ha! Told you,” Harry crowed, stabbing his fork in Ron’s direction. 

“It was bizarre. He sounded almost proud of me, or something. Said I had a good future as an Auror--a senior one, at that.”

“Oh, Ron, that's wonderful! I just knew they’d see sense--and I’m glad he recognizes what an asset you are,” Hermione beamed at him proudly. 

Ron scratched the back of his ear, a little overwhelmed by the praise. “Um, thanks. Not really an asset now, but maybe someday. At least I didn't completely bollocks it up.”

“Is that why Pethwick didn't show?” Harry asked, quickly grasping the implications. “Merlin, don't tell me we lucked out and he got sacked--”

“No such luck; it’s not supposed to leave this room, so don't go saying anything, but he _is_ suspended while they investigate him, though. At least that’s something. 

“Seriously? That’s excellent news! Can you imagine not having to dread being called out and wondering if you're stuck with him?”

“I'm just hoping he doesn't come back at all--whether they get rid of him, or he’s too embarrassed, I don't care which.”

“So, what's the other news? You wouldn't be so nervous looking if it was just that,” Hermione pointed out, watching him intently.

One of the traits that fell into the Frustrating Things About Hermione category was her unfailing habit of bringing things to the serious, unpleasant part while you were still trying to enjoy yourself. He felt around in his pocket, but didn't bring out the vial quite yet.

“Yeah. The other. I guess you both know I had an appointment today......” he waited while both of them nodded, noticing that they pushed their food aside and leaned forward a little. “The good news is, when he checked to see how many had turned red, it wasn't as bad as I had been afraid it would be.”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Hermione whispered. “I was afraid that after the other night....”

“Even if it had been, it wouldn't have been your fault, Hermione. Anyway.....he said that even though my, um, anger issues are a little higher than normal, he’s seen a lot worse, and he’s pretty sure he can help. There's just......one thing.”

“Really? But that doesn't sound bad, so far. I mean, if he thinks he can help, and all,” Harry said. 

“What’s the ‘one thing’ you aren't telling us? Can I help? Or Harry? You know that we’d both--”

“All you have to do is ask, Ron,” Harry added, nodding.

The left corner of Ron’s mouth jerked up spasmodically. “No, it isn't anything like that. I wish you could do it for me, though. The thing is,” he pulled out the vial and set it on the desk with a click, but not letting go, “He wants to put me on a potion for awhile. Just to sort of.....I dunno, even me out so I can actually focus on what he’s saying without getting mad about it, and end up not making any progress.”

Hermione sagged back in her seat. “What a relief! For several moments there, I thought you were going to say it was something horrible!”

“I don't think that's all there is to it though, is it, Ron?” Harry asked quietly.

He darted his eyes up to them, then back down at his hand, still fiddling with the potion. “Harry’s right. The main thing is--I don't really want to take it.”

“What?” Hermione exclaimed loudly, leaning across the desk, “But Ron, if it helps--”

“Oh, come on, Hermione! Would you want to take it, if it was you?” Harry asked, looking over the top of his glasses at her.

She sat back, looking rather abashed. “Well, I mean.....If I needed......no, I suppose I wouldn't _want_ to, but--but there’s nothing wrong with--”

“I think it’s one of those things that there’s nothing wrong with it for other people, but no one really wants to do it themselves,” Ron sighed.

“Ah,” Harry shifted around in his chair, looking everywhere but at his friends, “I wasn't going to tell anyone, but after.....you know. I wasn't doing as well as I imagined I would be, and, well, after talking to a Healer......I took a potion for a few months myself. Didn't fix everything, but it.....sort of slowed things down so I could manage.”

Ron stared at him, floored by the revelation. “But I didn't know--you never said--I would've tried to help, if--”

“I know. That’s sort of why I didn't say anything. I knew you would--both of you. And after the way you'd been helping me for years.....I didn't want to drag you into another round.”

“Harry.....” Hermione said, reaching out to squeeze his arm.

“We wouldn't have minded,” Ron added. “Does Ginny know?”

Harry shrugged. “I wasn't going to tell her either, but she found it while she was looking for something to help with a headache. Don't worry, I've already had the ‘you need to let people in’ talk from her. Anyway, this is about you, Ron. You said you don't want to take it, but if you already decided, then why do you have it?”

“I said I didn't _want_ to, not that I wasn't going to. And that’s why I asked for both of you to be here. I'm supposed to take a trial does now, and see if there’s any side effects. I figured it’d be safer to have both of you here, in case you notice something i don't, or I can't get help in time. You alright with that?”

“Of course! Did he mention anything specific to look for?” Hermione asked, sitting up straight and reaching for her wand, as if ready to reverse the process if he suddenly started sprouting a second head or something.

“No, he just said to watch for anything out of the ordinary. So if you'd be a friend and let me know if I start growing donkey ears.....”

“We’ll place a feed bag over you and go fetch help,” Harry assured him with a smirk. 

“Thanks. Oh, he did say that if it worked, my outlook might improve--so if I seem more cheerful, it might be a sign it’s working.”

“Huh. Sort of a Doctor Jekyll, Mr. Hyde thing,” Harry mused.

“What? Who?” Ron asked, confused. 

“It’s a Muggle thing, and not one very fitting to the situation!” Hermione gave Harry a withering look. “Don't worry, Ron.”

Harry hunched his shoulders, raising his hands in surrender.

“And so, in the comforting presence of my friends,” Ron muttered, picking up the vial. 

He read the label: ‘Take contents of vial with water, with or without food.’ Seemed simple enough. He supposed when he got the full bottle, it would have more instructions about the dosage. Unstoppering it, he wrinkled his nose at the slightly medicinal odor that emerged, deciding to gulp it down in case the taste was bad as well. He gagged a bit as the liquid hit the back of his throat, but his mum had given him worse when he was a kid. He reached for his cup of water, the ice clicking against his teeth as he washed away the lingering taste. Making a face and smacking his lips, he set the glass back down, noticing for the first time how intently his friends were watching him. The room was thick with nervous anticipation, and he had a sudden wild urge to drop to the floor and flop about like a fish. He wasn't sure if that was the potion, or his own perverse sense of humor, but he realized it wouldn't be appreciated either way. 

“Um, I know I said to keep an eye on me, but.....maybe not like you expect me to explode?” He asked weakly. 

Both of them jerked back with a start, laughing nervously. 

“Sorry ‘bout that, Ron. I should know better, huh?”

“We just don't want to miss anything,” Hermione explained. “But maybe it would be best if we focused on something else; I'm sure we’ll notice any changes.”

 

 

Hermione wasn't fond of lying through her teeth--it brought back grim memories--and especially not to Ron. But as much as she wanted him to be comfortable, she had every intention of watching him like a hawk with a fat field mouse. If something was going to go wrong, she was going to be on top of it instantly. She had already decided on three courses of action, and was organizing each possibility into those three options. But as the minutes began to tick by, she began to relax fractionally. There were no visible signs of a severe allergic reaction. No difficulty breathing, no swelling, no rash. There were also no overt magical signs something was wrong, such as sprouting a new appendage. 

If anything, she noticed he began to seem more relaxed. His smile wasn't as tight, and he had stopped doing the small gestures he made when he was nervous, like bouncing his leg, or tapping his fingers or running them through his hair. Even his speech was more relaxed; his voice was less sharp, and his words were less clipped. She knew he probably didn't even realize how abrupt he could sound sometimes, so she doubted he was faking it to put her and Harry at ease. 

Maybe the potion was working? Sometimes it still amazed her how quickly magical medicine could start to take effect--although after Harry’s broken arm, it really shouldn't. She hoped it was. She knew that even if that were so, it wasn't a cure--Ron was still going to have to work towards that--but it would be nice for him to have some measure of peace while he did. She had to swallow back the question. Many of them, in fact. There was so much she wanted to ask--how long would he be on this potion? Was his healer looking into other methods to help him? If so, what? Was there anything specific she could do to help? What was he thinking? How did he feel?

She knew she couldn't ask. She knew from her own experience after the war, and then again when her father died, that there’s a kind of brittleness. Questions, even those kindly meant, are like broken glass over your skin. All you want to do is scream and snap, and the emotional energy it takes to be civil is unbearable. Ron......Ron had never really moved on from that part yet. He was doing alright with it for the moment, but she could see him start to crack a bit when things got strained. She knew she couldn't tiptoe around him forever--that wouldn't be good for either of them-and she wanted them to be able to talk about the important things without having to worry about what she said. 

“We should probably be getting back to our department,” Harry said with a quick look at his watch. “You good to go, Ron?”

“Huh? Go where?” Ron asked, his voice strangely slurred.

Hermione jerked her head back around from looking at Harry to find Ron, slumped loosely in his chair, with glassy eyes and slightly flushed cheeks. 

“To work, Ron,” Harry said, cautiously. “Do you feel well enough to go down?” 

Ron released a horrible, high pitched giggle. “Not with you ‘ere, mate!”

Harry and Hermione traded mortified looks, before Harry pushed himself to his feet. 

“Aaaaaaalright, I think that’s my cue to go track down Hitchens,” he choked out, looking torn between amusement and embarrassment.

“Ron!” Hermione snapped, feeling heat rise to her face, “How could you say that?”

The sloppy grin melted off his face instantly, and his eyes became wide and puppylike. He stood up, his chair falling backwards, and tried to stagger around her desk. 

“Did I say somethin’ wrong? I'm--whoop!” He yelped, as he fell to the floor with his feet tangled in the end of her rug. 

“Oh no! Ron, are you alright?” Hermione cried, standing up and moving towards him. 

He made a few feeble efforts to get to his feet, then gave up. His head lolled back, and he squinted up at her. “How’dya get taller than me, Hermyninny? S’no fair using magic!”

Something was definitely wrong with him. He acted like he was completely pissed! It had to be the potion-what else could it be-but she wasn't sure if this was just the precursor to a more dangerous reaction. 

“Can you stand up, or do you think it would be better to sit there?”

Ron tilted his head to the side. “Like it down here. I can see your ankles, which is kinda like your legs. You always had niiiiice legs, y’know that?”

“Um, thank you, but maybe we should-”

“I heard what happened; where is he?” A tall, middle-aged man came through the door, followed by Harry.

Hermione assumed this was Auror Hitchens. “He’s here, on the floor. He seemed perfectly fine, and then all of a sudden, it was as if he’d downed half a bottle of Firewhiskey,” she told him, stepping back. 

“That’s what Potter said on the way over, Miss Granger, is it?”

“Yes. And you would be Auror Hitchens?”

“Right. Sorry there’s not time for more pleasantries. I'd better have a look.”

Hermione was just fine with that, and stayed back as Auror Hitchens came closer, looking down at Ron who continued to gaze up at everyone else, bleary eyed.

“Son, I'm not sure how you managed to pick the rarest reaction to this potion, but you did. How are you feeling?”

“Son? Wait. I'm someone's son. Not yours, am I? No, you're not a flamin’ ginger. You're not my dad-you look like a dad, though,” Ron rambled.

Hermione briefly caught Harry’s stricken expression, but her attention was drawn back to Ron.

“Looks like he’s well and truly sozzled. Luckily, this is the worst of it. I've got the antidote right here,” Hitchens told them, pulling out a vial similar to the one had drank from, “But it’s going to knock him out for the rest of the day. You're going to need to get him somewhere he can sleep it off.”

“Hermione? Should we take to your flat, or his? If we take him to the Burrow his mum will worry, and she and Mr. Weasley are eating with me and Ginny tonight, so they’d find out if he was with me.”

She bit her lip, thinking. “It had better be his; I don't mind having him, but I think it might shock him to wake up somewhere unfamiliar. I’ll stay with him until I can be sure he's alright, though.”

Hitchens shot her an appraising look. “Excellent reasoning. It looks like he’ll be in good hands. I’ll send an owl with a new potion in the morning, if you two will be able to be with him again like you were today. Have him take it at lunch, that way it gives him a chance to be clearheaded.”

“Alright. Should we give him the potion now, or?”

“No! No, that’ll drop him almost immediately. Better to get him home, first. Apparition or Flooing doesn't combine well with it.”

Hermione scooped a few things into her bag and slung it over her shoulder, then joined Harry and Hitchens, who were on either side of Ron, propping him on his feet. 

“Here, I’ll take this side,” Hermione said, taking Hitchens’ spot at Ron’s right and sliding herself under his arm. 

“Here’s the antidote. Owl me if there’s any problems--although there really shouldn't be. Got him?” He asked loudly, over Ron, who had broken out into the Cannons fight song.

“Yes, thank you. Harry, are you ready?”

“Please. He sounds like a lovesick Erumpent.”

Staggering a little as Ron listed to the side and put more weight on her, Hermione Apparated them to his flat, landing in the living room.

“Easy, Ron,” Harry grunted, as they tried to steer him towards his room. “Let’s get you into bed.”

“Only if Hernia comes with me,” Ron leaned into her, trying to wink but only managing to blink both eyes. 

“Damn it Ron, will you give it a rest? I wanted you two to get back together, but I didn't want to watch!” Harry protested as the three of them squeezed through the doorway of Ron’s room.

“Here, Harry, let’s sit him down on the edge and give him the antidote,” Hermione interrupted, wincing as Ron trod on her foot. 

Both of them groaned with relief when they dumped Ron onto the mattress, holding on to his shoulders before he could topple over. 

“Ron, I need you to drink this,” Hermione said, taking out the stopper and holding it to his lips, not wanting to risk him spilling it.

“Not thirsty,” he said, pouting like a two year old and turning his head away. 

“I know, but you still need to drink it,” she insisted.

“Nuh-uh.”

“Want me to hold him down while you pour it in?” Harry offered.

She heaved a large sigh. We might spill it. Um, please turn your head, and pretend not to hear this.”

Looking confused, Harry slowly turned his head away, still holding onto Ron’s shoulder.

Pitching her voice low, she spoke in a sing-song manner, trying to get Ron’s attention. “Roooon. Ron, look at me.”

He turned his head.

“Ron, it would make me very happy if you drank this for me,” she said, batting her eyes and running her finger suggestively around the rim of the bottle.

Ron perked up, struggling to follow the motion. “How happy?”

She leaned forward, letting her lips brush his ear. “Very, _very_ happy.”

“Give it here!”

Before she could change his mind, she brought it to his lips, and held it in place as he tilted his head to drink it down. 

“Well, now I know why he prefers your methods of persuasion over mine,” Harry snorted. 

“Oh, shut up, Harry. Ron? Are you feeling any better?”

Ron’s eyes cleared, and he stared straight into her eyes for exactly three beats before they rolled into his head and he fell backwards.

“Ron!” She screamed, reaching for him.

“Hermione, it’s fine!” Harry said, grabbing her arm. “Hitchens said it would put him right out, remember?”

At this point, Ron let out a wall shaking snore.

“See? He’s just asleep.”

“Oh, thank God; I thought I'd killed him! Help me get him all the way onto the bed. He can't sleep like that.”

Harry helped her shuffle him around, taking off his boots and, with slightly more difficulty, his robes. Hermione drew the blanket up over him, and turned to Harry.

“You should probably get back to work. I’ll stay here awhile and make sure he’s alright.”

He looked down at Ron, who was still snoring. “You sure? Is it alright for you to leave this early?”

She shrugged. “Honestly? Half the time, at least two people in my department never come back for lunch every day. I hardly doubt anyone will notice. Besides, I have time off coming to me.”

“Alright then, if you're sure. Let me know later how he is?”

“Of course. I’ll send an owl. Goodbye, Harry.”

“Thanks. See you tomorrow, then.”

“Oh! Harry?” She asked, just as he was walking out the door.

“Yeah?” He paused, and on the frame.

“You had a funny look there back in my office, when Ron was rambling to Auror Hitchens. Was something wrong?”

Harry grimaced. “Well, I guess not really. It’s just......There’s sort of an issue about that. You know that hexing someone’s bits off are a common threat....”

She blanched. “Surely, you don't mean.....?”

“Not literally, but cursed so’s he can't have kids. I'm not sure of all the details, but I know that much. Still, Ron obviously doesn't know, and even if he did, wasn't in the right state of mind to know what he said. And Hitchens didn't seem upset by it. It just gave me a start, since I’d heard about it.”

“I can see why. That's awful!” She shook her head. “Sorry, I won't keep you; I was just curious.”

“Yeah. Alright, then, good luck with Ron.”

Hermione listened to him leave, automatically checking to see if the Wards were still in place. Then she turned back to Ron, who hadn't stirred--he must be sleeping pretty deeply because after the war, she had noticed he always woke up when someone was moving around in his room. Using her wand, she moved the chair over in the corner to the side of his bed, and sat down. There wasn't really anything she could do to help, so she turned to her bag, which she had dumped on his nightstand, and began to root through it for the book she had been reading. Once she found it, she turned to where she had left off, but she found that she was only able to stare at the page, not focusing on the words.

Should she even be here? Ron seemed fine, and Hitchens had said all he would do was sleep. He was certainly safe, and probably wouldn't even wake before it was time to get up in the morning. And she knew he was going to be embarrassed about what happened--he might even feel like she was there to babysit him. She had already been over uninvited once, but that time, at least he was awake and given the choice to refuse. 

_“‘Erm.....ione.....”_

At his low mutter, her head shot up. Ron’s face was wrinkled in distress, and his hand moved over the blanket, as if searching for something. The resemblance was so strikingly close to when he had been poisoned, that for a moment, she was unable to move. She took a shaky breath, and reached out to take his hand. As soon as she touched him, his face cleared, and his breathing evened out into soft snores. She smiled, using her free hand to lightly stroke his cheek, the gingery stubble scraping over her skin. He didn't wake, but she would swear he leaned a little closer. 

Like a passing cloud, some of the worry in her heart eased. This was where she belonged. Ron needed her there- _wanted_ her there. For nearly two years, she had lived her life feeling like things were half a beat off. And while things weren't yet completely okay, this, here, was _right._

Maybe tomorrow would bring a new set of problems, as Ron tried to deal with this. Maybe she would ask too many questions, or be more blunt than he could take at that particular moment. Maybe he would be snappish and say something upsetting. They could get through that. They had been through horrible times in their lives together, and, even if it took awhile, or they lost their way, they had come out of them closer than before. 

“You're going to be so frustrated when you wake up,” she said quietly, even though he couldn't hear her. “And you're probably going to grumble and complain, and say it isn't worth it. But I have news for you, Ron Weasley. I'm not giving up on you. And, more importantly, I'm not letting you give up on yourself.”

Settling in to watch him, Hermione began to feel more like herself than she had in a long time-since at least before her father had died. Being mindful didn't mean that she had to smother herself. Being sensitive to his needs didn't mean that she had to erase hers. She had promised Ron that she would be more open with him, but she hadn't followed up on that; not really. Starting now, she was ready to change that. 

No more holding back.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Jagged Little Pill (Behind Blue Eyes)

**A.N. This chapter has actually been ready for the last few days, but my wifi was so slow, it wouldn't post. The average speed is somewhere around 4 Mbps. Mine has been at .04. To give you some idea, that means when I downloaded a single song, it took 4 hours. So I’m sorry this is late, but trust me when I say it’s been painful for me, too!**

**Story Notes: We last saw Ron having a less than stellar reaction to his first potion. Some of you have been luckier and had positive results on the first go, and others have had to cycle through nearly every medicine and sometimes even combos before hitting on something that works. But then it does, and there’s that magical, wonderful feeling of _rightness._ Where you just know from here on out, life will be peaceful. You’ll never have to feel like you’re trapped and suffocating in the tangles of your own mind again!**

**(Those of you who have been on medication for a number of years can join me in cackling bitterly. We’ll get to that. But for now, let’s let Ron have his moment, hmm?)**

The world swam into a fuzzy sort of focus, and Ron blinked gummy eyes to clear them. His head felt strange; not quite an ache, but definitely off. He wondered why he was lying here--he couldn't remember much after he had gotten to Hermione’s office for lunch. Had he just come home after work and passed out?

He shifted his head slightly, noticing a large, furry brown hump on the bed close to his chest. He let out a loud yelp, flinging himself to the other side of the bed, nearly falling off. The noise startled it, and when it moved, he saw it was Hermione’s head. Her startled brown eyes darted all around, her wand coming up to defend herself.

“What? What is it? Are you alright?” Hermione asked loudly, her guard still up. 

“Sorry, I'm fine. I just wasn't expecting to see anyone, is all,” Ron grunted, pulling himself more fully onto the bed, deciding it was best not to mention mistaking her for a rat. 

At once, she relaxed, her body sagging as she rested her wand back on the mattress. “Oh, Merlin! I thought something had happened. I'm sorry, I fell asleep without realizing it. Are you feeling alright this morning?”

He pushed himself up against the headboard, yawning and leaning over his bent knees. “I think so. Head feels a bit funny, but--wait, did you say morning? What the hell happened?” He asked, his head jerking up to look at her.

“How much of yesterday do you remember?” She asked slowly, not exactly sure what she should say.

Frowning, he thought about it. “Well, I had my appointment yesterday morning. Met with Selby. Talked to Dad and Percy on my way to lunch.....went upstairs and started to eat with you and Harry while I told you both what was up......and then.....didn't I take the potion?”

“Yes. Are you _sure_ you don't remember anything after that?”

The way she was looking at him, he wasn't sure he wanted to.

“Um, No.....hold on, lemme think.” He closed his eyes and tried to concentrate. Slowly, hazy memories returned to him. He had to focus a bit to recall what he had said......

“Bloody buggering fuck!”

“Ah. You remember, then,” Hermione said, sounding like she was fighting back amusement.

Well, at least she wasn't going to rip his bollocks off for what he'd said. Still, he couldn't help groaning as he flopped on his side to face away from her, pulling his pillow over his head.

“Ron, it’s not as bad as all that!”

“Not from where you're sitting, maybe. Can you fucking imagine what would've happened if I'd been at work?”

“That's why you were with us. Come on now, you should be getting up,” she said briskly, tugging the pillow off of him.

“Don't wanna.”

“Harry always said you were like this at school, but I didn't believe him. No wonder he’d always looked like he'd fought a duel before breakfast.”

“Waking up early has rarely ever meant anything good. But I suppose you're not letting me out of it?” He asked, peeking over his shoulder.

“Nope.”

“Alright,” he sighed, rolling over. “At least I don't have to go through _that_ again,” he said, dropping his legs over the edge of the bed.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked.

“You know. The potion. Tried it, didn't work, too bad, so sad, it’s over.”

She gave a little laugh, like she couldn't quite believe him. “That one, yes, but Auror Hitchens is sending a new one to try this morning--he wants you to do exactly what you did yesterday. You knew you might have to try more than one, Ron.”

He stared down at the small, faded rugs he’d picked up in one of the charity shops. “Yeah, well, that wasn't such a good idea, was it? You saw what happened to me! I can't risk something like that happening at work.”

Her hands went to her hips, and Ron bit the inside of his cheek to keep from groaning again; he knew that look.

“And that’s why you'll be with me--and Harry, if you want. We made sure to get you out of there safely yesterday, didn't we?”

“Yeah, but--”

“And I'm sure if it came down to it, Hitchens would let you try it on the weekend.”

His fingers twisted into the sheets, anger and resentment flaring. It wasn't her that had to go through it then, was it? Why did she always think she had the bloody answers? Why couldn't she just let him do what he wan--he paused just as he was getting ready to yell as Hermione gave a slight wince, rubbing at her lower back. Her robes were slightly wrinkled, and looking down, he saw that not only had she taken her shoes off, but her bag was here and there were several books of hers stacked on his nightstand.

“Wait, how long have you been here?” 

Immediately, she went from stubborn to shyly embarrassed.

“Oh. Well. Since we brought you here. Hitchens said you shouldn't have any problems, but I was worried about leaving you.....I hope that's alright?”

“But what about work? You left in the middle of the day, and--”

She shrugged. “It’s fine. I needed to be here; it isn't like I don't have personal time coming.”

Even if that was true, Ron knew that Hermione wasn't the type to just walk out before it was time to quit; hell, half the time she’d stay an extra hour or two. He knew how important this job was to her--how much she wanted to make a difference. And she’d still been here, just because there was a slim chance he might need her. His fingers loosened in the worn flannel, and for now at least, his anger ebbed away, leaving him tired.

“‘Course it’s fine. And.....I guess one more try won't kill me. If we can do it in your office though--and be ready to get me out before anyone sees me.”

“Of course! And even in the slim, _slim_ chance that someone _does_ see you, we can just tell them that Harry used one of George’s gags on you.”

At that, he relaxed a bit. “Oh. Hadn't thought of that; that'd work at least once, I reckon.”

“Good. Now, are you sure you're feeling alright? He said that there shouldn't be anything wrong aside from maybe a headache, but I want to be sure,” Hermione asked worriedly, leaning forward to look into his eyes, one hand unconsciously coming up to stroke the back of his neck.

“I'm fine. Nothing a quick wash won't fix,” he said, closing his eyes slightly as her fingernails scraped delicately over his skin, leaving goosebumps.

Hermione checked her watch, giving a small yelp. “It’ll have to be a quick one--if we don't hurry, we’ll be late. I’ll go fix us some toast while you get ready,” she said as she gathered her things and darted from the room.

Ron sat there for a few more minutes, fighting the urge to lay back down and go to sleep. He didn't really feel like going in today. It was going to be the same old thing, as far as work went; they were still no closer to breaking any of their cases. He was definitely not looking forward to taking another potion. Hermione might have faith in it, but he didn't expect any better results than yesterday’s. At least they had a story to save him some embarrassment if it did get out. With a sigh, he started to get up and head to the bathroom, when there was a tapping at his window. Ron went over to open it, letting in the small, speckled owl that hooted happily at the sight of the treat he fished out for it. He untied the tiny parcel and note from its leg, and shut the window behind it. Opening the letter, he quickly scanned it; Hitchens apologized about yesterday and for the potion being late this morning, and told Ron to follow the same instructions as with the last one, finishing by saying that Ron was welcome to stop by his office if he needed anything. Ron crumpled up the paper and chucked it in the trash, then opened the package and pulled out a small vial identical to yesterday’s--except the liquid inside this one was Slytherin green.

“Oh. Well. No _way_ this is an omen for how today’s gonna go, now is it?” He rolled his eyes, his lip curling back. But he'd said he would do it, so there wasn't much point in dwelling on it.

Moving faster than he had earlier, Ron went to the bathroom and gave himself a wash with a damp rag and some soap, using a charm to get most of the wrinkles out of his uniform. No time for a shave, and he was just stuffing his feet into his shoes when Hermione called for him. 

In a flurry of toast, jam, and Floo powder, they arrived for work, making identical faces of disgust at the taste of Floo powder on their toast.

“Ugh. Don't think I’ll be doing that again,” Ron gagged out.

“Sorry, I just didn't think you would want to be late today. Although next time, I vote we take the extra few seconds to finish before we Floo.”

He swallowed the last bite, and both of them brushed crumbs from their robes. 

“Gotta go. Is it still alright to take lunch in your office?”

“That’s the plan. Oh, and if you could bring up something with chocolate? I'm feeling a need for caffeine.” 

“Sure. Oh, and Hermione?” He began, as she turned for the lifts.

“Yes?”

“Thanks for.....you know. Yesterday. I know you had important stuff you needed to do--”

“Yes, and I was doing it,” she said, reaching out to squeeze his hand.

He swallowed thickly. “Still. Thanks for being there.”

“Thanks for letting me,” she said, softly.

Ron wasn't sure what to say, so he just squeezed back, and nodded. It was strange, how in moments of clarity, he knew with utter conviction that Hermione, as well as Harry and the rest of his family, would do whatever they could for him if he needed them. But somehow, even though he _knew_ it, it always seemed easier to tell them that he didn't need them, to tell _himself_ that; to push them away, because any display of love and support burned like holding a match to your skin. 

People began to crowd around them, trying to push past on their way to work, so with hasty goodbyes they separated, each moving quickly towards their own department. His footsteps slowed as he neared the door; he didn't feel like going in today, but after missing half a day yesterday, and having serious doubts about this afternoon, he resigned himself to at least making the effort to put in a few hours. He reached up to rub the center of his chest, which was tightening in that odd dull-yet-sharp way that felt like it was drawing his shoulders forward to meet in the middle. 

Loud laughter made him jump, and then narrow his eyes. What was so funny? He heard raised voices and more laughter--more than had been common in the office for weeks. They knew. They fucking knew! They were all in there, having a laugh, ready to take the mickey when he came in--the door started to swing open and he jerked back, glaring.

“Oh! Ron!” Harry said, clearly startled. “It was getting late, so I was just getting ready to come check on you. Are you feeling--”

“You fucking bastard, you told them, didn't you!” Ron hissed, gripping Harry by the front of his robes and shoving him into the wall.

Harry’s eyes widened, then narrowed as he tried to bat Ron’s hand away, only succeeding in loosening his grip a little. “What the hell, Ron! Told who, what?”

“Don't try to lie about it! You told them what happened yesterday!” Ron growled, the muscles in his neck strained so tight, you could have plucked them like a fiddle.

“Do you honestly think I'd do that?” Harry snapped. “Just because people are laughing, it doesn't automatically mean it’s about you, Ron!”

“Oh yeah? Then what was it about?” He sneered.

“Seems Hastings and Martin were called out last night for a B and E. I guess they were a little keen after the dry spell, ‘cos they bungled it a bit. Martin got caught in a Hex as he chased the bloke down a set of stairs--shrunk his head to the about double the size of a Snitch--and he stuck his head through the balusters to call for help. Which Hastings did, but _before_ letting Martin move his head--leaving him stuck there and cursing so loud he woke up half the neighborhood. Somehow they still managed to catch the witch that had broken in, but, well, since they couldn't leave anything out of the report, with that many witnesses.....the story got around.”

Ron took it all in, slack-jawed as his mind struggled to process the words. When it did, he let out a high pitched cackle that took him several moments to get under control.

“You can't be serious! Did they really--Martin must've looked bloody hilarious!”

The corner of Harry’s mouth quirked up as he snorted. “Apparently, that’s nothing compared to the voice Hastings claims went with it--he's been in there doing impersonations.”

The giggles died away slowly, and Ron was left to realize that he still had his fingers wrapped in the front of Harry’s robes. He jerked them away, giving his head a hard shake. 

“Damn, Harry! I'm sorry about that--I just, well, I heard the laughing, and saw red; all these weird thoughts kept popping into my head....”

“You don't really think I'd do that, do you?” Harry asked quietly, trying, yet failing, to mask the hurt in his voice.

Ron’s shoulders slumped. “Of course I don't! It’s--sometimes the truth gets.....tangled. There’s something in my head that convinces me that things I _know_ aren't true, are. But I know, I mean, _really_ know, that you wouldn't do that to me.”

Harry watched him for several moments in silence, before sucking his lips between his teeth and releasing them with a pop. “Alright. As long as you know......let’s backtrack a little and forget that happened. How are you feeling?”

“Aside from nearly embarrassed enough to change my name and flee the country after yesterday, I'm fine,” Ron sighed. “I guess Hermione stayed to watch me in case something happened, but I slept right through to this morning. Hitchens sent another potion for me to try at lunch today, if you're up for it.”

“I'd say the question is, are _you_ up for it?” Harry asked. “I'm sort of surprised you're giving it another go--which, I mean, I think you _should,_ but I thought you'd fight it more,” Harry clarified, leaning back against the wall.

“I'm not thrilled, but Hermione put on her ‘You _Will_ do This Homework’ face, and you know how we’re both trained to react to that.”

Harry nodded, knowingly. “Reluctant, grumbling, but eventually giving in to avoid the lecture. Right, then. Lunch in Hermione’s office it is. Oh, and before I forget to tell you--Hitchens sent a message to me this morning, saying he’s taken care of it so if either Hermione or me needs to leave with you in the future, we won't get in trouble for it. As long as we don't abuse it. I guess he must have done that in case we need to today, but I doubt Selby will think hanging about out here will count, so we better get inside,” Harry told him, turning to go back into the office.

 

“Right. And Harry? I know you're probably going to get sick of hearing this, but I really am sorry about earlier.”

Harry looked over his shoulder, smiling a bit as he shrugged one shoulder. “S’not like I haven't don't the same myself a few times. Don't beat yourself up over it.”

Ron nodded to let Harry know he understood, but as he followed his friend into the office, he realized he was more determined than he had been to give that potion a chance. Harry might have forgiven him, but that still didn't make how he had acted all right. Harry hadn't done anything to give Ron a reason not to trust him, and he hadn't deserved to be treated like that. Ron needed something to help him get a grip.

He entered the room quietly, hoping not to draw too much attention as everyone was headed for their own desks, but a voice stopped him. 

“Finally learning how to slack off, Weasley, or all shagged out? What’s the bird’s name?” Tidwell called out.

Even though he felt his ears turning red, he forced his voice to show nothing but calm amusement as he replied, “Your mum sends her love, Tidwell.”

His comment earned loud guffaws and whistles, and he was able to get over to his desk, relaxing a bit once he could sit down out of sight. His things were still where he left them from yesterday; he went through his briefcase to make sure that nothing had been tampered with. Once he was reasonably sure no one had been snooping, he got to work, trying to block out thoughts of all the ways this new potion could go horribly wrong.

 

 

“You're not eating lunch?” Hermione asked with a frown, accepting the grilled chicken salad that Ron handed her.

He sat down next to Harry, whose own eyes had widened at Ron’s unaccustomed lack of appetite. “Too nervous. Just had a packet of crackers to settle my stomach for the potion,” he said, pulling the vial out. “I’ll wait till you two are finished, just in case something happens.” 

“I was telling Harry that I just got back from a quick Floo to my flat to get an overnight bag, just to be prepared,” Hermione told him, spearing a chunk of chicken.

“And I’m ready to go get Hitchens if I need to.”

“Nice to know everyone’s at their battle stations,” Ron answered with a sickly smile, pulling out the vial and setting it, with all of the care one would handle a Blast-Ended Skrewt, on the table. “And Hermione, you don't need to eat so fast--I'm really not in a hurry.”

“Maybe nothing will happen,” Harry put in, trying to be optimistic. 

“Out of all the times someone said that to you, about how often was it true?” Ron asked.

“Like I said, I’m ready to go get Hitchens.”

Ron listened as the other two talked, trying to nod or grunt in the appropriate places, but not having the energy to actually focus on what was being said. Something about new dress robes and a party, neither one subjects likely to hold his attention. He knew they were trying to talk about normal, unimportant things to keep him distracted, and vaguely he appreciated it, even though it wasn't really working. So when Hermione dredged the last few leaves of her salad through a glob of dressing, he picked up the vial and made sure that the instructions were the same as yesterday.

“Don't worry, Ron. You got through the spiked Cauldron Cakes, you can get through this,” Harry said, patting him on the arm.

“That’s not as comforting as I'm sure you meant it to be,” he muttered, before throwing his head back and swallowing down the pois--potion.

“Do you feel any different?” Hermione asked, leaning forward so far that some of her hair dragged through the dressing in her salad bowl, before she jerked back to wipe it off. 

“No, but it took awhile last time, and by the time it did I wasn't in any shape to tell the difference,” he pointed out. 

“Well, if he asks us to introduce him to Romilda, we’ll know it’s gone wrong,” Harry added, the tightness of his smile making it obvious he was joking to mask his own worries.

“Hermione? About how long was it yesterday before you noticed something was wrong?” Ron asked, after giving Harry a particularly rude suggestion.

She pursed her lips, considering. “I'd say about fifteen minutes.”

“Alright. It’s been about three, so in twelve more, we should know. Maybe.”

“Merlin, I feel sick,” Ron moaned.

Both Harry and Hermione sprang to their feet.

“Where? Are you going to vomit?”

“I’ll go get Hitchens--”

“Not like that!” Ron said, afraid they’d have him in the infirmary before he knew what hit him, “It’s just nerves from waiting.”

Reluctantly, they sank back into their chairs. 

“Are you sure?” Hermione asked, studying him with the intensity she used to reserve for particularly hairy assignments. 

Harry was quieter, but he nudged the wastebasket closer to Ron, just to be on the safe side, Ron assumed.

“I’m fine! Well. So far. It’s just my normal sick. Feel like I did right before my first Quidditch match.”

“Then it’s definitely good you didn't eat. Your eggs weren't quite so sunny on their second round that day,” Harry recalled. 

“Six more minutes, and it should be over,” Hermione said, looking almost as ill as he felt. 

Ron stood up and began to pace the room.

“Are you sure that's a good idea?” Hermione asked, her eyes following him about the small space.

“Let him, if it helps,” Harry said, saving Ron the trouble of answering. 

After a few more minutes, Ron felt himself relaxing. A tingling warmth spread through him, along with a strengthened sense of purpose.

“You know, I actually feel pretty good,” he said, turning to face them.

“Really?” Hermione asked, with a hopeful smile.

“You don't sound like you've been in the Firewhiskey, so that’s a good sign,” Harry added. 

“Actually, I feel _better_ than fine,” walking back towards Hermione’s desk. “Everything seems so clear!”

“Ron, that’s wonderful!” Hermione cried, leaping up and coming around the desk to hug him. “I didn't think it would work that well so fas--”

 

He squeezed her, then pulled away quickly, grinning down at her, lightning running through his veins, needing an outlet. “And I have so much energy! I haven't felt this alive in--ever, really!” He said, his words coming rapidly as he began to pace around again.

“Harry, do you and Ginny think you'd be up for a game of Quidditch tonight?”

Harry brightened. “I’ll have to ask Ginny, but I'm pretty sure we can! Want to meet at--”

“Good, good,” Ron interrupted, his speed increasing as he paced the length of the room, his foot bumping the wall with a thud every time he made a turn. “And I need to finish Dad’s building--bet I can bang that out before dinner--”

“Ron, even with magic, an entire building,” Hermione began, confusion and growing concern marring her face.

“No trouble if you know what you're doing. I could probably make him two, if he wants. Oh! Harry, I just had an idea. I know we canvassed the neighborhoods of the last known locations of some of the bastards we’re still looking for, but I don't think we were thorough enough--think I’ll get a list of all known past addresses, and, hell, work addresses as well, and cov--”

Harry and Hermione exchanged worried looks throughout his rambling, before Harry cut him off.

“Um, Ron? I'm not saying those aren't good ideas, but it might be a little too much for one person to tackle. All in one day, at any rate.”

Ron bounced on the balls of his feet, the world spinning by in glowing color. “Nononono, I can do it! All I have to do, see--” he continued to try to explain to Hermione, who kept smiling and nodding, and he missed Harry slipping away.

“But wouldn't it be dangerous to Apparate that many times, that fast?” Hermione asked when he paused for breath.

“Nah, you just have to _focus._ And right now, my focus is incredible! You wouldn't believe all the things I'm able to think of right now--all the details, the--”

 

The door opened, and Ron whipped his head around to see Harry and Auror Hitchens walking in. 

“I don't need any help today, I'm fine!” Ron protested, his voice rising.

“Damn, your eyes are so dilated, any more and they’d be completely black,” Hitchens muttered, coming closer.

“Well, I feel fine, so it’s not a problem!”

“Ron?” Hitchens snapped his fingers. “I'm over here.”

Ron shifted his focus, squinting. “Yeah, well, the lighting is shite in here; makes everything sort of jiggle.”

“Worse than I thought. Miss Granger, what has he eaten today?” Hitchens barked out, reaching for Ron’s wrist, gripping it tightly before he could pull away.

“Just toast and some crackers, as far as I know. What is it? What’s wrong with him?”

“His pulse is racing faster than a racehippogriff. He’s using up a great deal of energy just standing here--he needs to get home and take the antidote right away before it affects his heart.”

“I don't think I need to--” he began to insist, not wanting to give up this feeling.

“Ron, please!” Hermione nearly sobbed, gripping his arm. “We need to get you home! We’ll find something else that works later, but we can't do that if you're in St. Mungo’s because of this!”

“I--but I still have things to do.....” He tried to answer, shaking his head as things became fuzzy.

“And we’ll do them, but first we need to get you home. Won't do any good if you hurt yourself and have to slow down even more, right?” Harry said, taking his other arm.

“I......guess not. What was it again?” He asked, struggling to maintain the focus he had earlier.

 

“Here. Get him home and get this down him. Owl me as soon as he’s stable. He’ll be needing one of you to stay with him and monitor him this time; I want to know immediately if there’s any change in his color or breathing, or anything else out of the ordinary. Here’s my Floo address,” Hitchens said briskly, handing the antidote and a small card to Hermione.

“I’ll Apparate us this time,” Harry said, and barely waiting for a nod from Hermione, they spun in place and disappeared with a pop.

This time, they landed directly in Ron’s room, and he barely felt his feet touch the floor as they pushed him onto the bed.

“Here. Drink this,” Hermione ordered with shaking hands.

Ron stared at her. She looked terrified. When was the last time he’d seen her this scared?

“NOW!” She screamed, shoving the bottle against his lips until the glass clinked against his teeth. 

Automatically his mouth opened, and he nearly gagged as she poured the contents down his throat.

“Be careful! He’ll just throw it up again if you go too fast!” Harry warned. 

“I'm trying! But he has to get it down! Ron? Do you feel any better?” Ron? Rooooooooooooon?”

Hermione’s voice slowed in his ears, sounding as if it was travelling a great distance just to reach him. His vision was filled with her worried face, tears streaming from her eyes. He tried to reach her, but as he raised his hand, he became farther and farther away, falling........

 

 

Ron’s eyes cracked open, the blurriness clearing enough for him to recognize the ceiling of his bedroom. Damn. Yesterday had gone about like he'd expected. He started to roll over, and winced; his body felt sore all over, like he'd fallen off his broom at high speed. He was probably going to be shuffling around like old Mr. Puddlesmouth, the head archivist at the Ministry. With a groan, he forced himself to roll over, and yelped.

He had half way been expecting Hermione; he had prepared himself to see her asleep with her head on the bed. But this morning, she was still sitting upright in her chair, staring at him with a fixed expression. Her eyes were slightly bloodshot, and the circles around them were deep enough to tell him she had gotten little, if any, sleep.

“Hermione?” He asked, becoming unnerved by her silence.

“Are you feeling alright?” She asked without acknowledging his implied question, her voice hoarse. 

“I think I feel better than you,” he answered, hissing out a sharp breath as he sat up. “Then again, maybe not,” he amended. 

“Hitchens sent an owl last night. He said you would be feeling sore. Like a new recruit after a full day of training.”

“Too bloody accurate. Hermione? Did you get any sleep at all?” He asked, clearing his dry throat.

She shook her head, almost looking like she would sway out of her seat with the motion. “No. I was too worried......You seemed to be doing better once you were asleep, but I couldn't risk it.”

“At least it wasn't as bad as the first one,” he offered. With a yawn, he reached under his shirt to scratch his chest.

“Not as bad?” She nearly shrieked, her eyes shooting sparks, “The first potion might have resulted in mild embarrassment, but this last one could have seriously _hurt_ you!”

“It didn't feel too bad,” he mumbled, realizing that downplaying it to make her feel better wasn't going to work.

“Well, it did for the rest of us! Merlin, Ron! I was afraid......afraid that we wouldn't get you here in time--I sat on the edge of this chair for hours, waiting to see if I would have to Apparate you to Mungo’s!”

Frowning, he reached out to take one of her hands, which were clutching the edge of his bed. “But it worked out alright, didn't it? I'm sorry I scared you, but I'm doing fine.”

She blinked back tears. “I know. But it was still.....still closer than I’d like,” she said more calmly.

He ran his thumb over her fingers, noticing her nails were ragged. Looked like she’d reverted to a habit he thought she’d broken in second year.

“Has the owl come with the next potion?” he asked, hoping to change the subject.

Her lips thinned, and she stared down at the bed. “No. Hitchens wants to see you this morning before you try another one, if you decide to.” 

“What, now you don't think I should?” Ron asked, frustrated.

She shook her head. “That’s your decision to make.”

“Yeah, it is, but I'm asking for your opinion--you've always been more than happy to give it before,” Ron snapped impatiently, shifting and breaking their hold on each other’s hand.

Hermione flinched, but didn't rise to the bait. “I don't know, Ron. Logically, I realize the potion--the right potion--could help you, and I want that for you. But another wrong one......The choice has to be absolutely yours, because I won't push that on you. Not with what it could possibly do. So please, don't ask me to.”

Ron sighed, suddenly exhausted. “I dunno. Even if it wasn't as bad as yesterday, I don't know how many failures I can go through. I can't keep doing this if things pick back up at work.”

“Hitchens did say that he was fairly certain what to give you now, based on your reactions to the last two. You should probably talk to him before you decide.”

Ron grit his teeth to keep from yelling. Here he was, asking for her help, and she couldn't give him a bloody yes or no? Hermione always had an answer even if you didn't want it. And now here she was trying to get out of giving him one, just because she was squeamish about what the result. 

“Do I have time for a real shower this morning?” He asked, his words clipped. 

Whatever she had been hoping his response would be, that wasn't it, for her shoulders slumped. “Yes. I’ll go make breakfast; Hitchens said you would need energy after yesterday.”

Without waiting for his reply, she stood and walked stiffly from the room, but Ron barely noticed. He rose and stomped into the bathroom, silently fuming. How many tries was this going to take to get right? Why was any kind of progress always such a trial for him? Why couldn't just one fucking thing be easy, for once? 

“Just try, Ron. That’s the important thing,” he said in an exaggerated, babyish voice, making a face.

Well, he was trying, but what good was it doing him?

In a foul mood, he scrubbed himself off and put on a clean uniform, his stomping even louder now that he had his boots. In the kitchen, breakfast was already on the table, and he dropped into a seat with a grunt, and began to eat, barely looking up at Hermione who was poking at half an egg on a piece of toast. 

When they were finished, Ron sent the dishes to the sink to wash tonight, and stood up.

“I’ll just go get my things, and we can go,” Hermione said, a false note of cheer in her voice. 

“Let’s go separately today. I’ll see you at lunch, alright?” He didn't need anyone seeing them and realizing how helpless he was.

Looking surprised, as well as slightly hurt, Hermione nodded and turned away.

Ron was puzzled by her reaction, but everything else faded away in his hurry to get to Hitchens’ office and figure things out. While Hermione went to retrieve her things from his room, he went to the Floo, grabbed a handful of powder, and called out for the Ministry.

There were more people than he would like already roaming the halls, but he made it to the right wing with no trouble, thankfully not running into anyone he knew. The receptionist nodded him in without even needing to be asked, so he assumed he was expected.

“Ah, Ron! I was expecting you,” Hitchens greeted him from his place by the cabinet.

At least, Ron thought with dark amusement, that last potion hadn't done any damage to his deductive skills.

Come in and sit down; I’m still looking for something,” Hitchens said, with a sideways nod to the chair.

Ron did as he was asked, hoping this wouldn't take too long. 

“So, how are you feeling today? You gave us quite a scare.”

As if he'd done it on purpose! “Yeah, well, it wasn't too great for me, either,” he said shortly, even though truthfully, he hadn't been functioning enough to be as worried as he would have been otherwise.

Hitchens gave him a quick look as if he knew what Ron was thinking, but made no comment on it.

“Ah, here it is. Now......” he said, carrying something over to his desk.

He put down another small vial, and Ron couldn't help recoiling slightly. It was the color of watered down blood, just shy of being pink. He wasn't particularly squeamish, but something about it made his stomach turn.

“Hold out your arm, please,” Hitchens ordered, coming over to stand by his chair.

Quizzically, Ron obeyed, resisting the urge to bat the Auror’s hand away when he grabbed his wrist between his fingers.

“Hm. Your pulse seems to be good. As is your color. Eyes are clear, too, and focusing correctly. Aside from tired and achy, do you feel strangely at all?”

Ron shook his head, taken aback. Hitchens was usually laid back, and spoke in a conversational tone. Now he was almost brusque and professional, and the change was jarring.

“Good, good. But just to be sure, perhaps a general diagnostic spell.....”

He muttered an incantation Ron wasn't familiar with, and looked pleased when the tip of his wand gave off a clear, steady glow. 

“Looks like we got you the antidote in time. If you're feeling up to it, we could try this potion to--”

“I'm not too sure how long I can keep doing this,” Ron blurted. “I never know what’s going to happen next, or how bad it'll be. I don't want to give up, but......maybe I should take a break, or something.”

Hitchens nodded thoughtfully. “I'm sure this has put a lot of strain on you. And I agree a break might help, but just to give you all the information before you decide, I’m almost positive I’ve narrowed it down to three potions that could work for you. And with this one, I can tell you with certainty that the worst that will happen is you’ll fall asleep and not wake up for several hours.”

“Really? That’s it?” Ron asked, not sure if he wanted to believe him.

“That’s it. Given the way you reacted to the other two, at least. No one has ever reacted negatively to those and this one; people either take to one strain or the other.”

 

Ron sat back, considering his options. On one hand, he wanted to just stop and ignore this. There was too much, too fast, and he just......wanted to pretend everything was fine for awhile. On the other hand, everything _wasn't_ fine, and he wanted to get this _over_ with as fast as possible. And from what he’d heard, the risks weren't too terrible this time. Just falling asleep didn't sound so bad; he'd had to do that the last two days anyway, after all. 

“Alright. I’ll try this one today, but if it doesn't work, I want to take a few days off from them.”

“I think that’s reasonable. Here, you go ahead and take this; I’m sure you're wanting to get to the office. I’ll be on standby again, so just send Potter if anything happens. If I don't hear from you by the end of the day, I’ll assume the potion is working, and you can stop by tomorrow morning, and we’ll go from there.”

In what felt like was becoming an all too familiar cycle, Ron accepted the potion and left the office, plodding to his department with a sense of impending doom. With his luck, he’d have a reaction no one had ever heard of; make a name for himself in all the wrong ways. Or he'd sleep for days. Maybe never even wake up--or not for years. Didn’t Hermione say something about that once, when he’d overslept?

“Hey, Weasley!” Martin called out as he entered the office.

“What?” Ron snapped, not even breaking his stride on his way to his desk.

“.......Nothing at all, mate,” Martin said, slinking out of the room. 

Harry looked over with raised eyebrows, but Ron ignored him. He had enough to deal with without worrying about Martin’s delicate sensibilities. Keeping his head down, he shuffled papers around on his desk, making it look like he was actually working. Not that he was probably fooling anyone, but it was enough to signal them to stay away. He tuned out the noise around him, and began to mindlessly arrange the papers by name, and then by dates. He was just about to arrange them by severity when his stomach growled, and he realized it was time for lunch. Standing up, he noticed the room had cleared out; Harry must’ve gone on ahead. He patted his pocket to make sure he still had the potion, and made his way to the canteen.

After picking up two plates of a pasta bake that looked reasonably fresh, he looked around for Harry; not finding him, he went ahead and carried his tray up to Hermione’s office, where, for the second time in a row, Harry had beaten him. 

“I called that I was going for lunch, but you never answered,” Harry explained. “I wasn't sure you felt up to it, so I let you be.”

“Sorry, I didn't hear you. I was trying to, well, distract myself. Guess I blocked everything else out.”

“Are you still feeling well?” Hermione asked, adding her thanks for her lunch as Ron set the tray down. 

 

He shrugged. “‘Bout like normal. So, not that great, but not bad, either.”

“Hermione said you went to see Hitchens this morning. What’d he say?” Harry asked, then made a face at his slightly stale sandwich, dropping it in favor of a bag of crisps.

Ron blew on the forkful of food he held, knowing the pasta would be lukewarm, but the cheese would be molten. “He said I was fine. Even did one of those tests healers do,” he explained, noting that Hermione relaxed some at that.

“Good. I wasn't too sure yesterday that you'd make it in today.”

“Well, I did, and if you're game for a third round, I've got another potion. If this doesn't work, I'm putting the next off for a week or two,” he said, plunking the new vial down.

Both Harry and Hermione jerked back slightly at the coloring, before they realized what it was.

“Are you sure it’s a good idea, so soon?” 

The question came from Harry, but Ron had no doubt he’d been coached by Hermione.

“Yeah. He says he’s pretty much figured out what I need--he’s narrowed it down to about three--and he told me the worst this one should do is make me fall asleep. I figured that wasn't too horrible of a risk to go out on.”

“Sleep? Does this mean we have to try to pour an antidote down you, or just let you.....well, sleep it off?”

Ron stared at her, frustrated at how long it took him to make sense out of her question. “Uh, I'm not sure. I guess you can ask him if it happens, but doesn't the antidote just put me to sleep anyway?”

Hermione raised her thumb to her lips, seemed to realize there was no more nail to bite, and tucked her hand back into her lap. “Yes, I suppose, although since yesterday’s seemed to speed up your heart, this one sounds like it could possibly slow it. If you do lose consciousness, I think we should ask just to be safe.”

Oh. Well. When she put it like that.....

“Harry, I didn't get a chance to ask. Have I missed anything important these last two afternoons?” Ron asked, trying to choke down his lunch.

Harry became suddenly shifty. “Not really. Sort of. Nothing.....concrete.”

Instantly, his food was forgotten--which wasn't as hard as one would think, since it hadn't been memorable to begin with. “What? Tell me!”

“Someone thought they saw Huxley in Brighton. That’s what Martin stopped you about this morning; he thought you might want to go along with him.”

And he’d fucked that up a treat, hadn't he?

“Damn!” He yelled, throwing his fork down, the pasta forming knots in his stomach.

“It was a false alarm, though!” Harry rushed to reassure him.

“But what if it hadn't been? What if Martin had mucked things up, or worse?”

“It was, and he didn't, so it doesn't matter what it might have been,” Harry countered. 

“Except there I would have been, sitting with my teeth in my mouth while he catches the rat bastard we’ve been after for months!”

“Which wouldn't have been any different than me,” Harry said. “Besides, they couldn't have thought there was much chance of it being him, or they wouldn't have sent Martin--not after yesterday.”

“Yeah, yeah. I guess you're right,” Ron huffed, “But still. I can't keep missing days like this--and I've got to do something about my fucking temper--if I hadn't snapped at him, I would’ve been able to go along.”

“I suppose now would be a good time to try that, then,” Hermione suggested, nodding at the vial.

“So you're fine with me taking it, now?”

“As I said before, it’s your decision. I'm going to worry either way; that's just what I do. But if you're going to do it, I’d prefer you do it with Harry and I here to make sure you're safe.”

Not giving himself time to change his mind, he picked up the vial and quickly scanned the instructions--same as the last two, but with the addition of not drinking alcohol while taking it. Easy enough. He removed the stopper with a pop, and knocked it back, smacking his lips at the odd taste--almost like candied flowers. 

“Twelve minutes, starting now,” Hermione informed them, noting the time.

“I wish you wouldn't make it sound like some sort of doomsday countdown,” Ron complained. “I'm nervous enough.”

“Sorry! What should we talk about, then?”

“Something besides Ron, so he doesn't feel like we’re focusing on him. Has anything interesting happened with you, Hermione?” Harry asked, turning to her.

Hermione blinked, startled at the question. “Well, no, not really. I feel like I’m the only competent person in this department that cares about anything, or puts any effort in--”

“So, pretty much like being back in school?” Harry asked, smirking.

“Ugh, even worse! But I did get a call from my mum the other day; she’s visiting a friend she went to university with, who moved to the States.”

Ron half listened to their conversation, thankful that they weren't staring at him like he was an unstable potions experient. It was just enough distraction to keep him from panicking and tricking himself into thinking he was getting sleepy, without needing him to join in. As the time passed, he began to gradually pay more attention.

“Let me get this straight. She and her friend are going to get on a ship with a bunch of strangers, and sail around in freezing water with chunks of ice? Doesn't sound like much of a holiday.”

“It’s supposed to be rather pretty, actually. They’ll have a good view of the sky,” Hermione said, then glanced at the clock. “Oh! It’s been almost fifteen minutes! How are you feeling? I think this is the longest you've lasted.”

He frowned, looking down at himself as if he would be able to see some sort of change. 

 

“I.....don't know. I don't feel different, but at the same time.....well, that tight feeling in my chest is gone, for one thing. But I don't _always_ have that, so I'm not sure it’s the potion. I'm not as upset as I was earlier, but I can't really tell if that’s faded away on its own, either.”

“Well, that’s a step, isn't it?” Harry asked. “You didn't have a bad reaction. And you knew it wasn't going to be some miraculous cure. So maybe subtle is good?”

With a shrug, Ron answered, “I reckon we’ll see. Actually, I think I feel pretty good. Still a little worried and frustrated, but I can think of other things. It’s like I'm more relaxed and focused, but not to the extreme, like the past two tries.”

“Thank Merlin! I was worried how much of a strain on your body another bad attempt would be. Even if this one doesn't end up working fully, it’s a step in the right direction,” Hermione said, smiling.

Ron nodded, but his answer died as he looked at her. Really looked at her. She was happy, but she looked like hell; the circles around her eyes were like bruises, and her hair was limp looking. She looked like a flower he’d put in his pocket to take to his mum when he was little--pretty, but definitely the worse for wear. Well, she would be, wouldn't she? He mentally berated himself. She’d been watching over him for two days! 

And as he thought that, a few of the things he’d said came back to him, and how he must have sounded in return. Of course she’d been worried about him taking another potion--he could have possibly died the day before, or had some sort of permanent damage! No wonder she hadn't wanted to rush him into another one--he would've been hesitant himself, in her place. And--oh, blimey, telling her he wanted to come to work separately, as if anyone else would know what had happened! They were dating; the most people would've thought, if anything, was that they’d spent the night together. She must have thought he was ashamed to be seen with her, or something.

“I guess third time was the charm,” he finally said, returning her smile. “Harry, we should probably be getting back--it might’ve been a false sighting earlier, but maybe a real one’ll come in soon, and I wanna be in on it if it does.”

“Right. Sorry to eat and run, Hermione,” Harry said, standing up. “I’ll see you later. Probably not tomorrow, since Ginny wants to get away for lunch--says she’s about to murder a few of her teammates.” 

“Bye, Harry. Tell Ginny she shouldn't bother; they’re not worth being benched over,” Hermione laughed.

“I’ll be right with you,” Ron said, signalling to Harry he wanted a few minutes alone. 

“Sure. Here, let me take your tray for you,” Harry said, stacking them together and shutting the door behind him as he left.

“Is something wrong?” Hermione asked, standing to move slowly around the corner of her desk. 

Ron took a couple of steps to join her, reaching out to brush back a limp strand of hair that had slid into her face. “Nah. You know Harry, though; he doesn't want a front row seat when we get soppy.”

Some of the worry faded from her eyes, and she gave him a small smile. “Are we about to be soppy, then?”

He bent down, gently kissing her lips, savoring the way she sighed and leaned into him before he pulled away. 

“Just a little bit. We’ve used up too much of our break for me to do it full justice,” he wiggled his eyebrows, grinning when she laughed. “And I wanted to say thanks for the last couple of days. I know I was getting sort of......tense, and didn't really act like I appreciated it, but I did.”

“It’s alright. I know you didn't--”

“Hermione,” he cut in, his tone gentle, “I know you were upset.”

She started to deny it, and then gave her head a small shake. “Actually? I was. Well, Not upset. More......scared. It felt like things were going back to the way before, when you shut me out and didn't want me around. I was afraid you weren't going to let me help you. I need to be able to talk with you--when you don't communicate, I don't know what to do.”

Ron nodded. “I know. It didn't help this morning when I said we should come to work separately, did it?”

Her eyes lowered to his chest, and she nodded.

“I didn't mean it like you thought I did--I'd gotten all twisted up in my head, and sort of convinced myself everyone would know there was something wrong with me. I know it doesn't make sense, but sometimes when I get upset, I can only focus on one thing--and it’s usually completely barmy.”

“I understand. It’s just, it’s hard to know if you're mad in general, or mad at me specifically for something I’ve done--I don't want to brush it off if I’ve done something I need to make right, but I know constantly asking if you're mad at me isn't going to make a situation any better.”

“That’s one of the things I’m hoping all of this will help with,” he admitted. “Because sometimes even I don't know myself, so I can't really expect others to be able to know.”

“We’ll figure it out,” she said, wrapping her arms around his waist for a loose hug. 

“There was something else, too,” he added, pulling her a little closer.

“Hmm?” she mumbled, looking almost half asleep as she leaned into his chest.

“You look absolutely knackered--I know you haven't slept much the last few days. Since I’m doing pretty good right now, I want you to go home and rest tonight.”

Her head jerked up, the earlier worry seeping back into her eyes. “Are you sure? I'd hate it if there was a delayed reaction, and you needed help!”

“I’ll be fine,” he promised. “I've still got to make it through the rest of the day, so if I can manage that, I doubt anything’s gonna happen. But if I feel any different, I promise I’ll go stay with Harry--he hasn't had the pleasure of a night watch yet.”

“Are you sure?” Hermione asked, weakening.

“Positive. Get some rest; I’ll even send an owl before bed to let you know how I am. We can have lunch tomorrow and make plans for the weekend, yeah?”

“That sounds wonderful,” she said, lifting her hand to stroke along his jaw with a strange smile.

“What is it?” He asked, curious about what she was thinking.

“Nothing. It’s just you look better, in your eyes. More like _you.”_

“Before the war, you mean?”

She shook her head. “None of us look like that. I don't know; it’s hard to explain. I suppose it’s the same way my mum could always tell just by looking in mine that I had a fever.”

“I can sort of see that. Guess that’s a good sign, though.” It must be, because he knew earlier in the day, he’d have probably taken that wrong. He wasn't quite sure how to describe the difference, but he felt....less brittle.

“You better go, before you get in trouble,” Hermione said, pulling away with reluctance. “Don't forget to write, please?”

“I won't; I know you won't actually sleep until I do.”

“You're right, I won't. And you really will go over to Harry’s if you start feeling funny?”

“Yes, Hermione. I’ll go have him tuck me in and read me a story. Seriously, I'm pretty sure I’m going to be fine.”

“Alright, I won't nag,” Hermione promised, ignoring his disbelieving look. “You go on, and I’ll take my worry out on whichever of my poor coworkers who scuttles in here next asking for favors.”

He gave her cheek a quick kiss, and started to jog as he left her office. He just had a few more minutes to spare before he was late, and he didn't want to start his first afternoon actually being there off on the wrong foot. Nearly everyone else looked to be back from lunch, and he scanned the room until he found Martin. Weaving his way through the desks, he tapped the other man on the shoulder, oddly reminded of a younger Neville as he looked down at the hesitant, doughy face.

“Ron! I--what can I do for you?” He asked, looking like he was afraid he was in trouble for something.

“Nothing. I just wanted to say I’m sorry for taking your head off this morning; I had something else on my mind, and I shouldn't have taken it out on you.”

Martin blinked wide, gray eyes, wearing the sort of expression common on people not used to receiving apologies. “Oh! That’s alright. I mean, I should've known you wouldn't want to come along with me--”

“Actually, I would’ve, so if it comes up again, ask. I’ve just had some.....personal stuff I'm trying to wrap my head around, but it didn't have anything to do with you.”

“You didn't miss much,” Martin sighed. “Our witness was so blind, I’d be surprised if they could tell a coat rack from a person.”

“Still better than being stuck in the office all day. Like I said, feel free to ask me next time. If I can't do it, I'll at least try to decline more gracefully,” he laughed.

Martin grinned and nodded, so Ron wandered over to his desk, ignoring some of the surprised looks he was getting. He really didn't stop to chat much with other people, did he? 

The afternoon passed fairly quickly, since no sooner had he gotten ten minutes work in, there was a call for broom drills. After those, and waiting to get a shower, (why were the same three stalls always out of order?) it was time to go home. Ron sent a quick message to Harry to let him know he might be stopping by later if if felt like the potion was starting to go wrong. 

He didn't see anyone he knew on the way to the Floo stations, and the lines moved fairly quickly today--they always did the closer it came to the weekend. Still feeling fine, he decided he would go home for now. He wouldn't drop in on Harry unless he really needed to; Harry might not have stayed the night like Hermione did, but Ron knew he’d been worried all the same, and probably hadn't slept well. 

It was strange to come home alone, moving under his own steam after the last two days. He stepped into his living room, and automatically moved aside for the others--shaking his head at himself when he realized they weren't there. He had thought he’d sit down and have a short rest, to get used to being alone and to take advantage of being able to think clearly, but it didn't work. He sat down in his chair, but realized he didn't have anything to do. He didn't feel like working, and there were no magazines at hand to read. He clicked on the wireless, but nothing on the air caught his interest. 

He found himself looking around the room, and it struck him, for the first time, how drab the place was. He remembered Hermione’s flat, with all of its pictures and knick knacks, how it was much the same at Harry’s, and even George’s. He’d stayed at inns with more personality. Why didn't he have anything out? He knew he had stuff. Somewhere. Probably still in his old room at the Burrow. 

At that thought, his stomach growled, and he remembered, with a groan, he hadn't picked up any food. The things Hermione had brought over were all pretty much used up by now. Well, why not go to the Burrow, since he’d been thinking about it? His mum would be happy to feed him, and he could root through his room there to see if he could find anything to put up here. He went to his room to change out of his uniform and into an old pair of jeans and plaid shirt, giving his hair a quick comb before leaving.

“Mum?” He called, coughing a bit from the Floo powder as he stepped away from the fireplace.

“Ron? Is that you?” He heard her yell from the kitchen, before her footsteps brought her down the hall. “Ron! I wasn't expecting you until Sunday!” Is everything alright?” She asked, coming to give him a hug.

“Yeah, everything’s fine. I just stopped by to get some stuff from my room.”

His stomach gave a long, loud growl, demanding attention.

“Um, and maybe stay for dinner, if that’s okay?” He asked sheepishly.

His mum laughed. “Of course it is! We’ll start just as soon as Bill and Fleur get here, but you probably have time to find whatever it is you're looking for. Is Hermione with you?” She asked, peering around him as if Hermione might be crouching in the fireplace.

Ron watched her, amused. Wait. Amused. He was amused! He didn't feel like she was pressing him for anything, or trying to pry. He didn't feel like she only cared that he was here if he had Hermione with him. I was just his mum being his mum. Merlin, he never would've believed he’d be _happy_ she was being nosy!

“Ah, not tonight. She’s been helping me with a few things, and she needed to get some rest. I’ll probably ask her if she wants to come for dinner on Sunday.”

“Good! Oh, I'd better get back into the kitchen; those carrots won't chop themselves.”

“Actually, Mum, they will,” he sniggered at her.

She swatted his arm, rolling her eyes but smiling. “You know what I mean! And while you're up there, try to give your room a dusting, please.”

He followed her as far as the stairs, while she continued to the kitchen. He’d gotten off lightly; if it was warmer out, she’d probably ask him to degnome the garden. The stairs creaked under him in their familiar rhythm as he climbed to his room, finding it in the same state he’d last left it. As he suspected, there wasn't a speck of dust, but he did a Charm anyway out of habit. He went over to his closet, but it was mostly filled with clothes that didn't fit anymore, and not much else. Frowning, he got on his knees and looked under his bed, stretching his arms all the way until they reached the boxes that had been crammed back against the wall. Twisting around and grunting, he pulled them out, thinking he should probably sort through them and get rid of some of it, but knowing he wouldn't. 

The first one was a mess of old toys and assorted bits, including an old Gryffindor tie. With the second box, he had more luck. There were old books in here, and a few stacks of loose photos, some of his family, and some from Hogwarts. There were even two or three of just him and Hermione after the war, looking thin and tired, but happy to be together. He didn't bother looking through all of them, but carefully put them in an empty tin he found, and carried it downstairs. 

On the second floor landing, he was brought up short by the sight of Victoire, who had pulled herself up the stairs somehow, and was now sitting there looking rather lost. 

“Does your mummy know you're up here?” He asked, squatting down beside her. 

She shook her head, bring her thumb up to her mouth as two big, fat tears formed at the corners of her eyes. 

“Want me to take you to her?”

A rapid nod, and two pudgy arms thrust towards him told him in no uncertain terms that was _exactly_ what she wanted. 

He scooped her up in one arm and tucked the tin under the other, and carried her carefully down the remaining stairs, following the sound of voices to the kitchen.

“I think you all lost something,” he said, bouncing Victore a little as he came into the room. 

Fleur paused in the middle of her sentence to look over at him. “She was sleeping, so we left her on the sofa,” she explained.

“Well, she woke up and was already up the first flight of stairs when I found her,” Ron said, passing her over to Bill. Or trying to; Victoire seemed to decide that she prefered to remain perched on his arm. 

“What? Is she alright? Did she fall?” Fleur asked, immediately coming over to check her daughter. 

“She’s fine; think she just scared herself. There wasn't a lot of light up there.”

“Thanks, Ron. She’s started exploring more--and she moves surprisingly fast!” Bill said, patting her proudly.

Their mum looked up from the pot she was checking on the stove, and frowned. “Still, it’s dangerous for her on those stairs. We’ll put up some of the old childproofing Charms later tonight.” She set the ladle back down, and wiped her hands on her apron. “The food’s ready, so let me go call your dad in and we’ll eat.”

Ron sat in his usual chair, but when they tried to move Victoire over between Fleur and Bill, she began to fuss.

“She can sit over here; I don't mind,” he said, setting the tin down on the other side of his plate.

“Really? She’s getting independant, and she can be a handful,” Fleur warned, looking pleased all the same. 

“Sure, it’s fine. She’ll share her biscuits with me later, won't you Victoire?” He asked her, making a face.

Victoire shook her head and giggled, clapping her hands.

Bill and Fleur looked at him oddly, but Ron was too distracted by the arrival of his father and the food being passed around to notice. Mum had made her beef stew and fresh, homemade bread, still warm from the oven. He dug in ravenously, the ghost of his canteen lunch hanging its head in shame at its inadequacy. 

“Hey, Dad?” He asked, once he had taken away the first sharp edge of hunger.

His dad looked up from his bowl. “Yes?”

“Do you have any picture frames in your shop? Small ones. I'd like to put a few up in my flat.”

“I'm pretty sure I do, although I don't think many match.”

“If it’s pictures you're wanting, I have some I haven't managed to put into scrapbooks yet. You can take them home and pick out any you'd like,” his mum said, refilling her glass.

“Thanks, that’d be brilliant.”

After dinner, Ron joined the rest of them in the den, where he rolled a small ball back and forth with Victoire, and let her crawl over his outstretched legs while he talked to the others. When she started to yawn, Bill and Fleur decided it was time to leave; they’d only been back from their trip since this morning, and nearly as tired as their daughter. Ron went to help his mum clean the kitchen (which he knew would earn him a few extra biscuits) while his dad went out to get the frames he had asked for. 

“These are the ones I could find; let me know if you need more,” his dad said, coming into the kitchen and setting a small box on the table. 

“That’s fine, Dad,” Ron answered, wiping some crumbs from his mouth. “I’m still not even sure how many I’ll want to put up, or where, so this should do me. If the weather’s good, I’ll try to come over Saturday and get some work done on that new building I promised you.”

“No rush,” his dad smiled as he got himself a cup of tea. “Your mum wants me to organize the old one for the move--even though I already know perfectly well where everything is.”

“Which is amazing, since half the time you can't even find your own shoes,” his mum commented tartly, sweeping back into the kitchen. “Here, Ronnie. I found those photos. Just bring back the ones you don't want when you're done.”

“Sure, Mum. Thanks--for this, and dinner. I was starving, and hadn't picked up any groceries recently.”

“What?” She cried, clearly appalled. “Ronald Weasley, I won't have a child of mine going without food,” she began, rushing around the kitchen, getting out the leftover stew and pouring it into a large bowl.

“I wasn't going without, I just--”

“You just don't take care of yourself properly, that’s what! Now, I want you to take these leftovers--you can bring the dishes back Sunday.”

“Molly, don't load him down too much, or he’ll never make it home!”

“He can make two trips if he needs to. You carry those boxes into the living room for him, Arthur.”

Not given much of a choice, Ron balanced the bowl of stew and some of the bread she had wrapped up and followed his dad. 

“Thanks, Mum. You didn't have to go to the trouble, though.”

She snorted. “As if feeding you is trouble! You know you're always welcome to join us if you're hungry. You know I feel better when I know you're eating right.”

Careful not to spill anything, he bent his knees enough so he could kiss her on the temple. “And with cooking like yours, wild hippogriffs couldn't keep me away. G’night, Mum. See you Sunday for sure, maybe Saturday too.”

His Mum reached up to pat him on the cheek, smiling softly. “Did something good happen today, dear?”

“Not really, why?” he asked, not quite ready to tell anyone besides Harry and Hermione about the potion.

“I don't know. I was just noticing how much better you look, in your eyes.”

“You and Hermione make them sound like thermometers or something,” he laughed, walking over to the fireplace.

“They’re near enough. Wait, let be old that while you take the boxes, then I’ll put the bowl on top,” his mum fussed.

Ron did as instructed, and once he was balanced and said his final goodbyes, his dad threw the powder for him and he called out for his flat. The stew sloshed, but thankfully didn't spill, and he staggered into the kitchen to put it and the bread away.

Once he was done, he carried the pictures and frames back into the living room to sort through, putting everything onto the coffee table. Sitting down, he felt oddly tired. Not bad, just......not as much energy as he thought he’d have; he’d save this for tomorrow night. Maybe he should try to get some sleep--sleep! Merlin’s balls, he’d forgotten to write Hermione. Jumping up, he rushed to dig out some parchment and a quill, splattering some ink as he hurriedly wrote a note. He told pig to hurry and promised an extra treat when he got back, and sent him off; hopefully the extra incentive would keep him from getting distracted. 

His jaw cracked in a yawn as he went to take off his clothes, and he paused in stripping down to his boxers. Wasn't the unwanted side effect of this falling asleep? Should he Floo over to Harry’s? He considered it, then decided not to. All of his other reactions had happened within minutes. And even though he had technically gotten full nights of sleep for the past two nights, he’d used up a lot of energy just by being nervous and upset. It didn't feel like unnatural tiredness, so he probably just needed a night of regular sleep to set him right. 

He still had to see Hitchens in the morning, so he could check him over again, just to make sure. All in all, though, Ron was rather pleased with how this potion had turned out. He’d been able to talk to people without snapping. He hadn't been plagued by that insistent feeling that people were talking about him, or plotting against him. And even though his entire family hadn't been there, he’d been able to hold a conversation with four other people at once in the Burrow, without needing to step outside for air. It was a good feeling; good enough to make his worries over taking a potion feel silly. Of course, he still didn't want to be on it permanently if he didn't have to, but he’d been afraid that it would.....change him, or something. But it hadn't. He was still himself. His thoughts were his. His feelings were, too. He was just able to sort them out better. 

Going to wash his face, he considered what his Mum and Hermione had said about him looking better in his eyes. He’d teased them, but maybe there was something to it. The eyes were said to be the windows to the soul, weren't they? Maybe the people that knew you--really knew you--could look in your eyes and see that something wasn't right. 

Wringing out his flannel, he stood upright and studied his face in the mirror. There hadn't been any miraculous change. He was still thin, pasty, and covered with freckles, with hair a color that shouldn't occur in nature. But.....he didn't look quite as beaten down. Not as angry. Less like a man who was on the brink of utter despair. He touched the glass, trying to put his finger on exactly what was different. It took awhile, and he wasn't absolutely sure, but he smiled, knowing one thing.

It was the first time in nearly two years that he had looked into his own eyes and was anything close to happy with the person looking back.

**A.N. Prt. 2. My family and best friend have the ability to look into my eyes and know I’m not doing well once I hit a certain Iow. It’s a skill I find comforting and annoying in equal measures.**

 

 

 

 


	8. He's Going For Distance, He's Going For Speed (Are There Any Good Bits Left?)

**A.N. You probably thought it would be March before you heard from me again, but here I am! I’ve gotten one deadline off my plate, and once I get my room in shape to put in new windows and a mattress, I should have more time for writing. But the windows are the originals in this 40+ year old house and are allowing not only poor heating but mold (I have discovered first hand that toxic mold poisoning is no fun), and the mattress is 25, with holes and exposed springs. Definite priorities, at this point! I’ll be able to write in comfort and the ability to breathe without fear. And with February ending, some of my depression will be lifting a bit as well, which will help the writing process (as well as prevent me from accidentally turning this into a gothic sob fest.).**

**Story Notes: From previous chapters, some of you are concerned that the potion is going to be a quick fix--I promise, it’s not. Ron still has plenty of work to do, and setbacks to face. As for there being no such thing as a medication for PTSD, that is indeed correct. There is nothing on the market formulated for that specific illness. However, many of those of us diagnosed with PTSD are on medication for the depression, anxiety, sleeping, and other side effects associated with it, which is basically what purpose Ron’s potion serves. Some people have been able to be successfully treated without medication, with only therapy and coping techniques. Others, especially those with other issues added onto the PTSD, need the medication as well for the other two to be able to have any effect. Some doctors refuse to treat it with medication. I've found it can vary widely from case to case, so there might be some details of Ron’s experiences that don’t match entirely with every reader.**

**Hobbies. Passion. These are things that can slip away without you even being aware, and seem almost trivial to think about with everything else that might be going on. It’s easy to forget that they are necessary for relaxation, for a sense of satisfaction, and even an important part of socializing. Trying to get yourself back into things you once loved can be difficult. What if it doesn’t make you feel anything anymore? What if you've lost all of your skills? Do people think you're trying to avoid working on your problems? It isn’t easy, but it’s worth it. It enriches your life; privately, it gives you strings of small, tangible accomplishments, soothing repetition, and focus. Socially, it can widen your circle of friends, help you feel connected and engaged, and gives you a safe subject to talk about. In this chapter, Ron gets ready to get back into the saddle.....or he would, if brooms had such things.**

**This chapter is for GTG; Thanks so much for your enthusiasm, and I’m sorry again for accidentally tromping on it!**

 

For the first time in several days, Ron woke up without wanting to immediately die of embarrassment. He basked in the feeling as he stretched out more comfortably on his mattress, taking stock of himself. Yesterday had gone surprisingly well. He’d actually found a potion that might work, and that didn't seem to be having any negative side effects. He’d even been able to go have dinner with his family, without tensing up and snapping at anyone. Even at work, he’d been better; he didn't have that nagging feeling of being watched and talked about. Still, he didn't think the world was all sunshine and rainbows, and he wouldn't be skipping through roses any time soon. It wasn't, he thought, that he felt really _good,_ it was just that he didn't feel miserable--he felt like what most people would call average. He supposed, though, that going from miserable to average could be considered good. He was pretty tired, which he couldn't quite figure out why. It wasn't the bad kind of tired, where he wanted to crawl into bed and not come out for a year, but it was different than a hard day of work kind of tired. A bit sluggish, maybe?

A tapping at his window had him sitting up, and he went over to open it and take the small package and note from the owl. The package contained the same vial as yesterday, with a note from Hitchens saying that if it had worked alright yesterday, to go ahead and take a dose this morning with breakfast, then see him in his office. 

Deciding he’d better put a good foot under him, he took a quick shower, shaved, and choked down some stale cereal--whatever else he did today, he needed to stock up--and took the potion. On the way to the Floo, he noticed the box of pictures from last night. No time this morning, he’d have to work on it tonight.

As he walked through the halls and corridors of the Ministry, he wondered if Hermione had gotten his letter last night. She looked dead on her feet, and he hadn't sent it as early as he had meant to, so it was more than likely she had fallen asleep first. And she probably had loads to do at her flat, after hardly getting a chance to stop by for more than a change of clothes, so he hadn't really expected a reply. He was determined that they would do something nice and normal this weekend--nothing major, like a fancy dinner or anything, just some relaxing together time that didn't turn into a code red.

He still hadn't hit on exactly what when he reached Hitchens’ office, which was surprisingly empty even though the receptionist had waved him through. Just as he was thinking it might be better to wait outside, the door opened and Hitchens walked in, carrying a small stack of folders and a large cup of coffee from the kiosk down the street.

“Morning, Ron; sorry I'm a few minutes behind today.”

“I've only just walked in myself,” Ron told him, sitting in his usual seat. 

Hitchens sat down behind his desk, taking a gulp of the coffee and closing his eyes in relief. “Merlin, I needed that,” he muttered, before opening his eyes and focusing on Ron. “So, I'm assuming that since I didn't hear from you last night, the potion worked?”

Ron nodded. “Seems like it. Better than the others, at any rate.”

“Could you tell a difference?” Hitchens asked, taking another sip of his coffee.

He considered that, not quite sure how to word his answer. “I think so. I mean, It’s not like I was afraid it would be. I'm still......I'm still me. I guess I was sort of afraid it would erase that, you know? Give me a sort of.....fake happiness, or something. But I'm not happy. Well, I mean, I _am,_ but not that gormless kind of happy like someone that’s been slipped a love potion.” 

“Not excessively happy to the point of being unable to see things realistically?” Hitchens asked him, hunting around his desk until he found some parchment.

“Exactly. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to get some relief from that anxious, Despair is Imminent feeling, but I didn't wanna go from one extreme to the other.”

Hitchens nodded. “Good. That’s not what the potion is for, in anycase. As you've probably guessed, taking it doesn't automatically solve your problem.”

Ron snorted. “Trust me, I wasn't expecting it to be solved so easily.”

“Still,” Hitchens continued, “I think this is a positive sign. Now that we’re able to keep you calmer, I can show you other methods of control, as well as trying to find the exact root of the problem and seeing what we can do about that.”

“What if there isn't anything you can do?” Ron asked. “I mean.....something obviously made me this way. You can't go back and change whatever is was, and I doubt you'd Obliviate me.”

Hitchens put his coffee down and steepled his fingers on his desk, frowning down at them. “No, whatever events that are in the past, there’s no changing them. And I’ve only-extremely reluctantly, mind you--ever endorsed Obliviation. Both those times were.....horrific, specific acts, which the loss of the memory would have no negative effects. Even then, the knowledge remains. And in your case, I suspect, even though I’m not prepared to give a concrete diagnosis, that no one instance is responsible for you being here. Obliviation would have no effect, and it would be dangerous, as well as counterproductive, to erase years of memory.”

“Then I guess what you’re saying is, I can't fix it, I just have to learn how to deal with it.”

“In most cases, that’s usually how it turns out, yes,” Hitchens nodded.

“Then why does it even _matter_ what the cause is?” Ron asked. They could shave some time off the process, and he could avoid a few subjects he suspected would make him uncomfortable.

“Because the more we understand about the cause, the better we know how to deal with it--trust me, it’s much easier to figure out the things that are likely to be upsetting for you, and for you to prepare yourself for them before going into a situation.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Ron answered reluctantly, feeling nervous but not to the point that he had the urge to run from the room. “So what do we do first?”

“Well, we could start talking today, if you have time. Perhaps if we started with the war--”

“Um,” Ron muttered, his reluctance increasing, “I'm not really sure I.....want to talk about that. Or even if I can.”

“You do realize that for this to work, you're going to have to talk about things that make you uncomfortable, right?” Hitchens asked, not unkindly.

“I know. But, erm, there’s some things that.....things that involve someone else, things that aren't supposed to get out.....” Ron hedged, not knowing how in the world he could avoid the Horcrux hunt.

“I see. You're worried about betraying confidences, and I expect possibly even a few things the Ministry wouldn't want being made public?”

“Yeah,” Ron sighed, glad that he wasn't the one to have to say it. Hitchens seemed a decent sort, but still....

“I understand. Perhaps you'd rather we work our way up to that? It’ll give you time to feel more comfortable discussing it with me, and give you a chance to talk to whomever it might affect. Also, if it helps set you at ease, not only to ethics prevent me from disclosing anything we talk about without your permission, I’m also willing to swear an Unbreakable Vow as far as any of the.....state secrets, so to speak, are concerned.”

He thought about that; as a matter of fact, it did put him at ease, a bit. While he didn't think Hitchens was the type to risk his career by doing something like selling information to the Prophet, Ron had been through enough to make him cautious, if not downright distrustful. Still, he felt bad for the implication, even though he hadn't seemed to have caused offence.

“It’s not that I don't.....I mean, I don't think you'd.....” he tried, then shrugged.

“No, that's fine. You hardly know me, after all; better to see if you can trust me with the smaller things first, right?”

Ron nodded.

“Some people are ready to talk about everything as soon as they get in here; it practically bursts out of them. Others require more time to build a sort of trust. I didn't think you fell into the first group, but I thought i'd give you the chance, just in case.”

“Is there anything else we can do?” Ron asked. “I know you said things would be easier once we found out exactly what’s wrong with me, but if there’s anything I can do.....”

“Of course!” Hitchens gave his hands a brisk clap, and leaned back in his chair. “There are plenty of basic things we can do that will help you, regardless of how the other turns out. Don't worry, it won't _all_ be digging around for your darkest, innermost secrets.”

“That's good news, at least,” Ron gave a half smile.

“To start....what do you do for fun?”

Ron had to sit there a few minutes, processing what felt like, to him, an abrupt change in subjects. “Um, fun?”

“Yes, fun. What do you do in your spare time that you enjoy? Reading? Athletics? Bird watching, of either variety?”

He laughed, the joke easing some of the strain. “I dunno. Mostly I go over reports, help my brother out at his shop.....things like that.”

Hitchens frowned. “Yes, but what do you do just for pure enjoyment?”

“That--that’s sort of one of the reasons I'm here,” Ron mumbled, looking down at his lap. “Seems to be I don't do anything for fun, anymore. I don't know when I stopped. I guess it just.....didn't feel important anymore.”

“Ron?” Hitchens asked, waiting for him to make eye contact. “That’s a normal reaction, and you don't need to feel ashamed. People neglect hobbies for a variety of reasons; some are too busy just trying to cope, while others don't feel as if they ‘deserve’ to feel any pleasure. You aren't here to be judged for that.”

While the second reason struck him in a way he couldn't reason out, he felt like it might be somewhere in the middle. Instead of saying this, he went on to answer the original question.

“I think some of it I naturally just outgrew--even before I got like this, I just found some things less appealing as time went on.”

Hitchens nodded. “There are some things we enjoy for a time, but they fade over the years. But what were the things that stayed with you as you grew older?”

“Well, there was chess. I was always pretty good at it, which surprised me, but I don't think I've played a game in.....blimey, it must be a year or more! I'm not even sure I unpacked my board when I moved into my flat. And then there was Quidditch, of course.”

“What was it you liked about Quidditch?”

“Oh, pretty much everything!” Ron said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “I started out listening to matches on the wireless, and Dad explaining everything. I think I was hooked after watching my first match, though--even if it did mean getting stuck with a pretty hopeless team. And then when I got a chance to get on a broom, and fly myself.....well, it was just bloody brilliant!”

“Sounds like you were more than just a casual fan!” Hitchens laughed.

Ron nodded vigorously. “Definitely! I'd memorized so many Quidditch facts, there wasn't room for much else. Collected everything I could get my hands on, wore the shirts until they were pretty much just four loosely connected holes. But......” he trailed off, frowning.

“But what?”

He licked his lips. “But then it just.....went away. I don't play anymore. Don't listen on the wireless. I didn't realize how bad it had gotten, until the other day, Hermione lent me a Quidditch Monthly to read.”

“And why was that so troubling?”

“Well, I used to read it fairly religiously. Practically memorized each article, you know?” He waited for Hitchens to nod. “When I started reading this one, the layout had completely changed from how I remembered it. I--I didn't even know some of the players!”

“And how did that make you feel?”

He leaned back, tilting his head to think. “Bad. Not like I'd done something wrong, bad, but frustrated. It was something I used to love, something that came so naturally, and suddenly it was gone, like reaching out for a doorknob that isn't there.”

“So would you say, then, that Quidditch wasn't something you had outgrown? That it was an element you'd like to have back in your life?”

Ron nodded slowly, then faster. “Yeah. Yeah, I would. I just....don't know where to start, and at the same time, I feel stupid for making such a big deal over Quidditch and flying......”

“You shouldn't. Everyone needs something they enjoy, Ron--an outlet, a short escape from dealing with everyday responsibilities, as well as heavier burdens. Without that respite, it becomes very, very difficult to cope. And, as a matter of fact, That’s going to be the first thing I ask you to work on.”

“You want me to.....play Quidditch?” Ron asked disbelievingly. 

“In a sense, yes.”

“But isn't that a little too, um, easy? Somehow I didn't expect Quidditch to play any kind of part in my recovery,” Ron continued, a tiny part of himself amused to hear what Hermione would say. 

“It might be a little harder than you'd think. Still, It won't be the hardest thing I ever ask you to do. I always like to start with smaller, more easily obtainable goals--things to give you a sense of progress, and to build confidence. There’ll be a lot more in your future; grounding, meditation, exercise, possibly ar--”

“Ah, let’s go back to Quidditch,” Ron said hurriedly, already feeling lost.

“A little overwhelming, hearing it all at once?” Hitchens asked sympathetically.

“Very. I don't think I even know what a few of those things are.”

“And that’s one of the reasons I’m not starting there. I think it’s better to begin with something you’re familiar with, and then ask you for larger challenges once you master those. This way, when you get frustrated later that you're not progressing fast enough, or that you've hit a wall, you’ll have some victories to remind you that you _can_ achieve what you set out to. It will give you more power over this, and assure you that you have control.”

That was something that drew Ron’s interest. “I-think that’s probably for the best, too. Sometimes......sometimes I don't _feel_ like I'm in control, and the more upset about that I get, the more control I lose.”

“That’s a good insight, and knowing that will help. The more I know about what’s important to you, and what you're struggling with, the more I’ll be able to tailor things to your needs. And I think, judging by your reactions today, that the potion will keep you at a stable point long enough for you to grasp the methods I’ll be teaching you.”

“So you can already tell a difference?” Ron asked, sitting up a little straighter.

“Mhmm. You're not reacting as defensively, and while you're nervous, it hasn't reached panic. And you seem to be focusing better. But all that reminds me, we need to discuss the effects of the potion.”

“Wha-?” Ron cocked his head. “But I thought there wasn't any?”

Hitchens shook his head. “There weren't any alarming negative reactions, no. But there are a few things you should know so they don't surprise you later. Don't worry, nothing to be alarmed about!”

“Oh. I guess I just thought......well, go ahead.”

“First of all, I know you're probably enjoying feeling pretty good right now--or at least, not feeling bad. And you should enjoy it, but also be aware that as your body adjusts to it, you'll be experiencing some of your old symptoms, although probably not to the same extent.”

“Okaaaay, not what I'd hoped, but not really too surprising,” Ron answered, figuring he’d never considered getting off square one in the first place, so he wasn't feeling as bad about this as he otherwise might.

“And you need to watch that you don't overdo it. Right now you think you're handling everything just fine, but you're using more mental and emotional energy than you realize. If you're not careful, you'll burn yourself out.”

“Like when I first started training, and was so keen to prove that I could handle the exercises, I was doing extra and nearly turned myself into a jelly,” he said dryly, recalling early days of muscles so stiff and sore, he could barely walk, let alone mount his broom.

“Exactly like that. It’s going to be important to keep up your connections with friends and family, but don't try to do it all at once. Remember, it’s equally important to pace yourself, and take some private time to rest.”

“Now that you mention it, I spent several hours with my family last night talking and stuff, and I do feel kinda tired. Nothing bad, but.....”

“But if you keep trying to go at that pace, you won't be able to keep up. I recommend spreading yourself around a bit selectively; meeting with people one on one or in very small groups, or if you have to meet a larger number, giving yourself a little more time in between any other interactions.”

“Guess I'll have to work on figuring out what my limits are. Was there anything else?”

Hitchens checked his notes. “Yes, one more thing. This particular potion doesn't react very well to alcohol. Butterbeer is fine, but anything stronger, I'd give a miss. Now, I'm not sure how much you drink typically....”

“Three Firewhiskeys are my limit--rarely even have that much, to tell the truth,” Ron answered, looking down at the floor.

“Oh, really?” Hitchens asked, pausing to look up from his notes.

“Yeah, why? Do I look like a lush, or somethin’?” 

“No, you don't,” Hitchens soothed, seeming to realize that Ron felt slightly offended. “It’s just that quite a number of people in your situation, before getting help, have tried to use it to sort of numb the pain, or help them to forget things.”

Ron shook his head, closing his eyes briefly. “It doesn't work that way for me. Tried, two or three times, but I couldn't stand the way it made me feel--which was actually worse, if you can believe it.”

“Well, i've had some with that experience too, but it’s always best to make sure, just in case. And it sounds like something you aren't likely to forget and do accidentally, so I don't think we need to worry about that.”

Mollified, Ron nodded and checked the time on his watch. “If there isn't anything else, can I go now? I need to get to the office, and I wanted a few spare minutes to think of something easy I could do this weekend to thank Hermione for the last couple of days.”

“I think that should be it; just sometime over the next few days, try taking a flight or two, or even tossing a Quaffle around with someone. Maybe even renew your subscription to Quidditch Monthly, while you're at it. I’ll send over a prescription for you to have filled at the apothecary, and I’ll see you Mond--no, I can't that day--Tuesday, then. Any questions?”

Standing, Ron started to say no, and then paused. “I don't know if you can help with this, but it’s sort of related, so....”

“Go ahead and ask; if I can help, I will,” Hitchens encouraged him.

Ron took a deep breath. “Well, I mentioned I was getting back together with my girlfriend, right?”

“Miss Granger, yes.”

“Right. And I know this might not be your area, but I....I want things to go well. It’s going to be harder than it would if I wasn't going through all of this. I just wondered if--if you could think of anything that might help.”

With a thoughtful expression, Hitchens slowly drummed his fingers on the desk. “In general, yes, there are a few things I can suggest even without knowing your exact situation. Mainly--and I don't think I can emphasize it enough--is communication. And that’s going to be difficult, since there are going to be times that you just won't _want_ to talk; you'll close yourself off, with no explanations, and that leaves her having no idea how to help or if she’s done something wrong....or if you simply just don't want to be with her anymore and don't know how to tell her.”

Ron had to wince at that. “I think we’ve already gone that route. And I’ll try, really I will, but I’m not sure what to say.”

“Talk about what’s going on with you. Tell her what you're thinking, and how you're feeling. Make sure you listen, and draw her out to do the same.”

“Sounds easy, but I expect I’ll manage to mess that up. I don't mean to, but I seem to put that kind of thing off a lot.”

Hitchens shrugged. “Of course you'll mess up. So will she. Ron, I've met your father; can you honestly tell me that he’s never, say, worked late, and forgotten to owl your mum?”

“Sure, a few times. Dad’s memory isn't always that great, especially when he’s trying to figure something out.”

“But you wouldn't say that he was purposefully neglectful of your mother, right? That he just didn't care enough about her feelings to let her know?”

“Of course not! Dad always tries to remember, and you can tell he really feels bad when he doesn't. He’s even worked on a system over the years to help, but sometimes....”

“Sometimes he just simply forgets, because he’s human. We all are, Ron. You just need to try your best, and not worry so much beforehand; that’s only going to stress you out more and make it harder.”

“I guess so. I’ll work on it, and let her know I am.”

“Good. Oh, and Ron?”

“Yeah?”

“You did say that you've only recently gotten back together?”

“Yeah, why?” Ron asked hesitantly. “Because if you were gonna say we should wait until I'm well, that's not gonna wor--”

“No, no, no!” Hitchens rushed to assure him. “From what I can gather, she’s an important part of your support group, one that you trust. Childhood friends, I believe?”

“Ron nodded. “She is. Been friends since we were eleven, and even these last couple of years when....when I haven't let anyone really be a friend the way they’d like. We’re just, um, giving the romantic aspect another go of it.”

“That’s what I thought. Then I suggest you take things slowly, especially the more.....physical side. I'm not saying that that can never advance, or that you need some sort of permission, but you would be surprised how much that can complicate and cloud things if rushed into. Just make sure you're both emotionally ready for each step before you take it.”

He felt his face going red, like a bowl being filled with Christmas punch. “Oh. Ah, yeah, we’ve already decided on that, so no worries. Aaaaaand I haven't told her, but I haven't been exactly feeling.... _up_ to things in that department for awhile, so it hasn't been an issue.”

Hitchen’s lips gave a twitch. “Well, you might find things changing in that regard, so just be mindful.”

“Alright. I think that’s everything, so I’ll see you Tuesday.”

Ron made it back to his office with only a few minutes to spare before everyone else started filtering in, so he didn't have much time to think about his meeting with Hitchens, or the upcoming weekend. He perked up when he was called out for what had been reported as a breaking and entering, but the excitement quickly faded once it turned out that a neighbor’s Niffler had escaped and had been lured over by a rather extensive coin collection. Ron spent the better part of the morning trying to hunt the little bugger down, finally cornering it in a little cubbyhole in the basement, which it was busy turning into a nest with its ill-gotten gain. He had snatched it up (having to harden his heart as it turned large, liquid black eyes up at him) and marched it back over to its frantic owner. Since it was an accident and all of the coins were recovered and damages paid for, no charges were pressed, and Ron dragged himself back to the office, swearing that it would be at least a week before he complained about an uneventful day.

On his desk was a message from Hermione, saying that she was glad he had still been well the night before, and letting him know that she wouldn't be able to do lunch, since there was a meeting she couldn't get out of--one that she strongly suspected would be used to table some important things if she wasn't there to push them through. Still, she said, she wanted to hear how he was doing with the potion, and anything else that might be going on, so if he wanted to wait for her at the Floo lines, perhaps they could have dinner or something?

Ron wrote back that he was sorry he’d miss her at lunch but that it was probably just as well, since he’d promised his dad he’d have lunch with him this week, and hadn't yet. He’d be happy to meet her at the Floo, although if she didn't mind coming with him to the market, he’d take a turn at making them dinner tonight while they talked. Afterwards, he and Harry ate lunch with his dad (Percy was also in a meeting, probably boring some poor sod to the point of drowning in their soup), and then, once back in the office, they were told to assemble for a lecture by an Auror from the French division on some new method or other--Ron didn't pay too much attention, drawing on years of experience of sleeping with his eyes open. He could get a condensed version from someone else later.

It was one of those days where you rushed around doing things, but not much actually got done--where if someone was to ask why you were so tired, you'd come up blank trying to think of an answer. So, unusually for Ron, he was one of the first to shoot out of the office as the clock struck the hour, giving Harry a hurried wave and a promise to talk to him later. He practically galloped down to the Floo stations, his briefcase slapping his thigh as he ran. The daily flood of humanity was coursing towards the Floos, and Ron stood off to the side so he wouldn't get trampled. He scanned the crowd, but he didn't see Hermione. She had said to meet here, hadn't she? Maybe he should've gone to her offi--

“Ron! Over here!”

He turned at Hermione’s shout, seeing her bouncing up at the edge of the crowd, waving her hand as she tried to push her way upstream like a salmon. She wasn't having much luck, so with a few well placed shoves, he made his way over to her instead.

“Sorry, I was hoping to beat the rush, but I got caught up,” she said, slightly louder than normal to be heard. 

“You're fine, I only got here a few minutes ago. Are you alright with going to pick up a few things?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, but could we stop at my flat first? Crookshanks has had his dinner late every night for the past few evenings, and he’s about to mutiny.” 

“Can't say that I blame him; sure, we can Apparate from yours--it’s probably easier that way.”

The lines moved quickly, and it wasn't long before their ears were filled with the lovely sound of silence as they stepped into Hermione’s flat. 

“It feels like it gets louder the closer to the weekend it gets,” Hermione commented as she set her briefcase down on the coffee table, undoing the scarf from around her neck. “I'm going to change really quick while we’re here, so go ahead and have a seat if you want.”

He did, listening to her and Crookshanks fuss at each other in the kitchen; Ron suspected the cat wouldn't be thinking of him too fondly, since he was the source of the disrupted meal schedule. He hoped to be gone before the crunching and smacking stopped, and the little furball decided to come looking for revenge.

“Sorry for taking so long,” Hermione said, coming from the hall, “I was in such a hurry this morning, I forgot to clean the sink. Are you ready?”

“Yeah, I’ll Apparate us since I know where--wow!” He said, as she came around the sofa wearing jeans and a shockingly hot pink jumper.

“I know, I know! I went shopping with your sister, and she insisted that I needed more color in my wardrobe,” Hermione said with a sheepish expression.

“It looks good,” Ron said, standing up. “I'm just not used to seeing you in anything quite that bright. It suits you though; Ginny has an annoying knack for being right.”

Hermione picked up her purse and stood up from adjusting the laces on her shoes. “I wasn't sure I liked it, but I think it’s growing on me. Now, let’s get your shopping done, because I want to hear all about how that potion’s been working for you.”

Ron Apparated them to the small market in his neighborhood, just on the edge of a small pocket of a Wizarding community. He did most of his shopping here, and the owner nodded at him as he came in.

“I haven't had a chance before now to do much shopping, so I'm going to have to get a trolley,” Ron apologized, grabbing one from the line and tossing his briefcase in. 

“That’s fine. If you tell me what to look for, I can help.”

He had been shopping with Hermione before. If he wasn't careful he’d leave with a load of leafy greens and more grains than anything outside of a bird should be eating. 

“Could you go over to the meat counter and pick up some sausages and bacon? And a few chops for tonight--make sure they trim them right.”

“Alright, I’ll meet you at the front,” Hermione agreed, looking pleased to have a mission. 

Ron wheeled the trolley around, hurrying up and down aisles, tossing in the staples without really looking. Once those were out of the way, he looked for a few specific things; a couple of kinds of cheese, some Butterbeer, carrots, tomatoes, and some fresh asparagus for tonight. 

“I thought you didn't like that,” Hermione nodded to the asparagus as she joined him in line. 

“It’s amazing what you can learn to like with enough garlic,” he said, waving the small packet of bulbs at her, and laughing when she made a face. 

“At least it’s a vegetable, I suppose,” she said, pointedly eyeing the crisps and biscuits he had tried to shove behind the other items. 

“Multiple vegetables, and a boring, adult cereal, so no nagging,” he said as he fished out his wallet. 

“Hmm. Alright. I’ll even pretend that you aren't going to sprinkle sugar on that cereal,” Hermione answered with a smirk, helping him unload everything. 

Once they had gathered up all of his bags and made it out to the Alley, Ron Apparated them back to his flat, aiming for the kitchen so they wouldn't have to carry everything farther than they had to. 

“This should hold you for a few days, I'd think,” Hermione said, setting everything down on the table, and methodically pulling everything out of the first bag. 

“Longer, if you count the meals I’ll eat at the Burrow--no, that goes in that cabinet over there--yeah, on the third shelf. Thanks.”

Hermione stood on tiptoe to shove the cereal all the way onto the shelf. “So. There hasn't been much time to ask you; are you still doing as well as you were last night?”

Ron paused in the middle of putting away a pot of mustard. “I think so. To be honest, I’ve been so busy today that I haven't really paid attention. I got irritated chasing a Niffler all over a three story house, but nothing, you know, excessive.” 

“A Niffler?” Hermione asked, unloading a sack of potatoes into a bin, “Isn't there a Magical Creature Control department for that?”

“Lady heard a loud crash, went down and saw her office looked like it had been ransacked. She heard something move, and she got worried and called us, thinking someone had broken in. By the time I got there and we figured out what it was, the little blighter was all over the place, and too scared to come even when we got its owner over.” 

Hermione bit her lip to smother a laugh. “Oh, dear! Not the way you probably wanted to spend your day.”

“Probably won't be the case that gets me promoted,” he agreed. “But I guess it at least got me out of the office.”

“Did you see Hitchens this morning? What did he have to say?”

The groceries were put away, so Ron pulled out a skillet and the ingredients he’d need for dinner. 

“Here, would you mind quartering these potatoes? Thanks. Let’s see, where do I start.....Oh. He thinks this potion is the right one, and he’s written me a prescription for it, guess he’ll monitor me on it for awhile. He says I need to watch myself, though, because the potion only does so much, and if I overextend myself I’ll be the same blubbering mess as before.”

“Ron!” Hermione yelled, scandalized, “He never said that! Did he? If he did, I’ll--”

“He didn't put it quite like that,” Ron rectified quickly, heading her off before she went into her mother bear mode. “But I got the gist of it.”

“Oh. So, is the potion all he’s doing? I had gotten the impression that there might be more, I don't know...” she gestured with her hands, the movement of her wand causing the knife she had set to chop the potatoes to slash about dangerously.

“Hey, easy there! Yeah, he mentioned a lot of other things we’ll be doing--but don't ask me what, because I wasn't sure what a few of them were, and hearing them all at once made me so nervous that I pretty much forgot them.”

“Don't worry, I'm sure he’ll explain them to you as you go along,” Hermione said, reaching out to pat his arm briefly, trying not to get in his way as he worked on the chops.

“He did want me to work on one thing to start with, though,” Ron continued, as he reached for the garlic to dice it for the asparagus. “But you'll probably think it’s stupid.”

Hermione turned away from the potatoes with a frown. “Why would I think it was stupid?”

He reached out to flip one of the chops, frowning down at the meat. “Because it’s not......you know.”

She shook her head, the little curls at her hairline sticking to her face from the heat of the stove. “No, I don't know. Please, Ron, just tell me? I won't be swotty about it.”

The room was silent for several minutes. This was what Hitchens had meant, right? That he was supposed to talk about things. He took a deep breath, hunting for the right words. “It’s nothing big. I mean, you'd think, or at least I thought, that things would be a bit more.....intense, maybe? That he'd have a whole list of things for me to do right away. But apparently that's not how he works. He says he wants to start with easier stuff and build up, so.....I dunno, so that I feel like I can do it, or something.”

Hermione handed him the tray of potatoes, and watched as he tossed them in oil, salt, pepper, and herbs from his mum, before he slid them into the oven. Leaning against the cabinet, she said, “I don't think that's stupid at all.”

“You don't?” He asked in surprise, wiping the oil from his hands. “I thought it might sound kinda useless, like I wasn't actually doing anything.”

“No. I mean, I'm not an expert on the subject, but I think it makes sense. Not just you, but I'm sure a lot of people who go in are nervous and afraid that nothing will work, or they won't be able to do it. Starting out with something they _can_ do probably gives them a good feeling they haven't had in awhile, and makes them less likely to give up before they even really get started.”

“Could you get the plates, please?” Ron asked, while he gathered his thoughts, watching her out of the corner of his eye. “I guess I thought you--and anyone else, really--would think I was just messing about and not doing anything seriously. Especially with what he asked me to do.”

“Well, now you've got me curious; what did he want you to do?”

“Something fun. Something I used to enjoy, like flying or playing Quidditch. I know you're not keen on it--”

“Ron, I wasn't keen on it when you were putting off your studies to do it! You're not a teenager anymore, and I hardly think you're going to start missing work to play.”

He snorted at that. “Sleby’d kill me. And you're right about that, but it just doesn't--it just doesn't sound like something very important to think about right now, does it?”

Hermione sat down at the table, leaning forward to rest her chin in her hands. “Do you remember when we were kids, and you and Harry were always going on about something Quidditch related? There was always some obscure bit of trivia, some amazing play that had happened recently, or a surprise trading of some player or another.”

He checked the asparagus, deciding it wasn't quite tender enough. “Yeah, why?”

“You always sounded so excited,” Hermione said fondly, “You seemed to light up with interest; even if it wasn't something I was particularly interested in, I admired your passion. But.....”

“But?” Ron asked, slightly surprised by her comment. He hadn't realized she’d ever found his Quidditch obsession to be anything other than annoying--and he wasn't even as bad as Oliver Wood.

“But, the last few years, it was like all of that drained away. Like all of the joy had been sucked out of you. Nothing made you happy. You weren't passionate about anything. And I know you're going to laugh, but life is more than a cycle of work, obligations, and sleep--”

“Get some parchment! I need that in writing, or Harry’ll never believe it!” Ron laughed, looking over his shoulder at her.

“Ha, ha. Seriously, though. I want you to have that happiness back--I want you to be excited about things again. I want.....I want you to feel like you're living, not just....existing. That _is_ important. And if getting to that point means going for a fly, or tossing a Quaffle around with Harry, then I don't think it’s a ridiculous first step at all.”

Tears pricked the back of his eyes, and it wasn't from the garlic. Hermione, without realizing it, had hit the thing bang on the head. Most of the time, that was exactly how he felt. Disconnected, not really part of the world around him. He hadn't really thought of his first....assignment? Whatever. He hadn't thought of it in terms of being a step to change that. He knew he was never going to be exactly the same as he was before. It was bollocks, but he'd pretty much accepted it. But even though that was the case, he still wanted to get as close as he could. He wanted to feel comfortable in his own skin--he wanted to be able to recognize himself. 

Not wanting things to get too heavy tonight, Ron finished plating the food and carried it to the table, giving Hermione a sly smile. “Does that mean you'll go to a Cannons match with me?”

She made a slight, strangled noise in the back of her throat as her eyes darted from side to side.

“Well, erm, yeeeeesss, I suppose.....”

“You know, as a gesture of support,” he continued innocently, sitting down across from her.

“O-of course. Just let me know when, and--”

“Hermione, relax. I think Harry can take up that part, don't you?”

She slumped in her seat, looking relieved before glaring at him. “That wasn't nice! You _know_ I would, if you needed me to--”

“Yeah, and I also know you don't go in for pro Quidditch very much. Never understood how you were at least sort of enthusiastic about the school matches, but not the real thing.”

“I don't know; I just can't get into it as much if I don't know any of the people playing,” Hermione said, pausing to eat a mouthful of asparagus. “Oh, that's good! You can volunteer to cook more often.”

Pleased, Ron decided to brush up on his cooking skills--he’d sort of been letting them slide, since it seemed to be draining to cook for one person. 

“I guess those cooking lessons Mum forced on us paid off, huh?” He asked, referring to a few weeks after Fred’s funeral, when his mum had pushed aside her grief over his death, and gratefulness at their return, to be scandalized by their condition. 

“For one of us, at least,” Hermione said, slicing off a small piece of her chop. “I'm usually too tired to bother cooking a full meal like this. It’s usually some type of salad or sandwich.”

“Same. Well, the sandwich part. Of course, I expect Mum loads you up with leftovers, same as she does with me.”

“Mm. Sometimes it seems like she has more leftovers than there were at the original meal.”

Both of them lapsed into a companionable silence as they took the edge off of their hunger; canteen lunches seemed to burn away, leaving only a faintly unpleasant memory to sustain you for the rest of the day.

“Hermione?” He asked, spearing a potato.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering.....you still wanted to do something this weekend, didn't you?” He hated that his voice held the ring of a fourth year student asking a girl out for the first time, but it couldn't be helped.

“I do, if you feel up to it,” she said, putting her fork down, leaning forward slightly. “Did you have something in mind?”

“Well, I know you'll probably be at dinner at the Burrow on Sunday, and I thought that Harry and Ginny might be game for a little Quidditch. I know you wouldn't want to play, but I'd like you to be there.”

“To watch? I wouldn't mind that.”

“That's not all--I mean, I want you to be there, but I still wanna do something that's just us. So Saturday afternoon, would you go to the Quidditch shop with me? And then maybe go to the cinema? We didn't get to go too often before.......and I remember it was fun.”

Hermione cocked her head. “Watching you play on Sunday, and going to the shop? That’s a lot of Quidditch in one weekend....”

He felt his shoulders droop; he knew it wasn't the best date, but it was all he could think of at the--

“If you throw in a trip to the bookstore, I'm sold,” she said, fighting back a smile.

As quickly as he had wilted, he perked back up. “I suppose that could be managed--I can look in the used section for any Quidditch Monthly they might have, see if I can catch up a bit.” 

They hashed out a few more details as they finished dinner--they wouldn't go out to eat, but would both have big lunches so they would only need to get some popcorn--and then they quickly cleaned up the dishes and went into the living room to sit down.

“Is that for work?” Hermione asked, with a nod to the box he’d left on the coffee table.

Ron glanced over at it as he sank down beside her on the sofa. “Nah, that's sort of a private project. I was thinking about asking you to help with it, but I think I'd rather surprise you and see what you think when it’s done.”

“Are you sure? I wouldn't mind helping with whatever it is,” Hermione offered, peering at the box, not quite able to see anything through the crack in the flaps.

“That’s alright, I can do it. Hey, you never did tell me what your meeting was all about today; you weren't getting in trouble for missing work, were you?” Ron asked, being both curious and concerned.

That distracted Hermione from the pictures, and for the next twenty minutes, she was off on the subject of how most people in her department fell into about three categories; those that considered being placed there as a punishment, those that thought it was easy money for little to no effort, and those that were using it as a way to give them ‘compassion’ points to help advance their political careers. Hermione started off passionately, but she soon began to yawn, covering her mouth and apologizing with increasing frequency. It was clear that she hadn't caught up with her sleep yet, and that, combined with a heavy meal, had her eyelids drooping.

“Hermione?” He said quietly, giving her shoulder a gentle shake.

“Hm?” Her head bobbed up as she tried to focus on him.

“It’s not that I'd mind if you stayed, but don't you think maybe you should go home before you pass out? You look like you need to get some more rest.”

“I'm sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me, but I just can't seem to hold my eyes open,” Hermione said, stretching and giving herself a brisk shake.

“As long as it’s not cometary on the company,” Ron joked.

“No!” She nearly yelped, sitting up straighter. “I've been having a wonderful time! Dinner was wonderful, and talking with you has been wonderful, and--”

“I think I get the general idea,” he laughed. “But really, I can tell you're tired. I am a little, myself, and we’re gonna have a big weekend. Besides, I think Crookshanks might sneak over and murder me in my sleep if I keep you out late again.”

At that, Hermione smiled. “He has been pretty miffed. And if you're tired, too, I should probably let you rest,” she added, standing up.

Ron rose along with her. “Not that I'm trying to rush you off, or anything. It’s just I don't think either of us are fully over the last two days, and with a busy weekend--”

“No, you're right. But Ron?” She asked, turning to him with a worried expression. “The weekend sounds lovely, but are you sure it isn't going to be too much for you?”

“I'm sure it'll be fine,” he promised, then amended it at her raised eyebrow. “Okay, maybe not _fine,_ but I need to see what my limits are, don't I? If I start feeling bad, we can do whatever we haven't done on another day.”

Hermione seemed to consider this. “You promise? You'll really say something? Because I wouldn't want to push you more than you're ready.”

“Weeeeeell, the bookstore might be a little more than I can take; maybe in a few months--”

She gave his shoulder a push, laughing. “Nice try, but no. Alright, if you think you can handle it, then that's what we’ll do. Now, I suppose I'd best get going before Crookshanks comes looking for me. Thanks for dinner, Ron, it was lovely.”

“G’night. I’ll try to see you tomorrow.”

He leaned down to kiss her, taking more time and enthusiasm than he'd been able to manage the last few times they'd had a chance. By the small sigh she gave, and the way her eyes sparkled as she pulled away, he was pleased to note that he hadn't completely lost all skills in that area. 

Once Hermione had gone, he went over to the box of photos. He flipped back one of the flaps, then closed it again; he hadn't been lying when he said he was tired, and he didn't feel like stringing out all of the pictures and trying to go through them tonight. Instead, he got the instructions for the building he was going to be putting up for his dad, stripped down to his boxers, and slipped into bed to read over them. He planned on going over early Saturday morning and working on it, and he wanted to make sure he had everything he’d need. The spells listed seemed straightforward, and he’d already left the main materials at the Burrow. From what he could tell, it looked like the few other things he’d need, his dad was sure to have around, so he set the papers aside, turned out the light, and rolled over to go to sleep.

In the quiet, with nothing to distract him, a small, niggling worry began to form in his mind, but he quickly squashed it down, determined to ignore it. At least, for now.

 

 

Friday passed quickly. He wasn't able to talk to Harry, since he was called out to the country for a possible lead, and Harry had been roped into giving a talk at Hogwarts for students that might be interested in joining the Aurors when they graduated. Ron wasn't sure which one of them had the worst of it, since his trip ended up being all for nothing, and Harry had to speak to a crowd. He ended up missing lunch with Hermione again, but at least he got a decent pub lunch out of it.

After work, he had gone home, and since he had promised that he would spend the evening resting, he fixed himself a good dinner, and then listened to the wireless and read the paper until it was time for bed. 

Saturday, he woke up feeling uneasy, and this time the sensation wouldn't go away. As he got up and tried to get ready, he couldn't help feeling nervous. What if this didn't work? What if he'd forgotten how to do things like play Quidditch, or worse, what if he just didn't ever get that enjoyment back? The thought of flying around on the pitch and feeling nothing twisted his stomach into knots.Maybe he wasn't ready for this. Maybe he needed more time. If he could just be sure--

There was a knock at the door, and he whipped his head around, reaching for his wand. No one was coming over today, were they? Not this early. Body tense, he moved to the door, positioning himself against the wall. The knock came again.

“Who is it?” He called out.

“Tibbles, sir! Delivery for you!” A high, squeakily cheerful voice answered.

He wasn't expecting anything, so he kept his wand up as he opened the door, relaxing fractionally at the sight of a house elf in overalls, huge boots, and a jaunty cap with a crest on the front which squashed down his large ears. He was holding a package. 

“I didn't order anything,” he said, wondering if the elf had the wrong flat. 

“No sir, it is a gift, sir! There’s the card!”

Tucking his wand in his pocket, he took the package, squinting at the cap on Tibbles’ head. A tiny Snitch was depicted in gold thread, letting him know what shop he was from; in the last year and a half, more and more places were hiring elves for jobs like this, so he wasn't too surprised. Tipping them, however, was tricky. Not all of them were very interested in money, and preferred to barter for their service; some wanted trinkets. Others, tools or castoff household items.

“Thanks. Would you like coins, or.....” he trailed off. He didn't have much in the place to part with.

“Would sir happen to have a tie he no longer wants?” The elf asked hopefully. 

“Um....wait, yeah, I think I do--hold on, back in a tick!”

Package still in hand, he dashed back to his room, rummaging around in a drawer. Before he’d started getting a regular paycheck, he’d picked a few things up at jumble sales. He’d thought to get a tie for work, and someone sold him a small bundle of them. One, however, was a loud red checked print that was several inches too short for him.

“This alright?” He asked the elf, coming back to the door.

Black eyes gleamed up at him, and a scrawny hand shot out to grasp the material. “Oh, yes sir! This will be perfect, sir! Thank you, and have a good day!”

Ron blinked as the elf disappeared with a pop. Well, he'd seemed happy enough, and he’d gotten a little unintentional cleaning in. Curiosity getting the better of him, he closed the door and went back to the sofa, sitting down to the package. Before he opened it, he decided to look at the card; the elf appeared to be trustworthy enough, but a strange package was a strange package.

_Ron,_

_I know we’ll be going to The Quidditch shop tonight, but I wasn't sure when you planned on going for your first fly, so I decided to play it safe. These aren't technically for Quidditch, since you're a Keeper, but I thought you should have a treat to mark the occasion._

_All my love, Hermione_

More excited now, he put the card on the table and ripped into the brown paper, his fingers fumbling at the edges of the box. It felt oddly like Christmas, as the package popped open, and he couldn't help smiling. Out slid a small bundle wrapped in some tissue, which he quickly balled up and and tossed aside. There, in his hands was Hermione’s gift; a pair of deep red, polished dragonhide flying gloves. He turned them over, noticing how the thin pads on the palms were slightly rougher to help with his grip, and how just the top knuckles of his fingers would be exposed, minimizing splinters, while still giving him some dexterity. They weren't Keeper’s gloves, those being a bit more heavily padded for impact, but the smell of them, the feel against his skin, brought memories of summer days on the pitch, laughter as someone slipped on their broom, sweat dripping into his eyes as he lunged to make a save.....the bracing sting of wind against his face as he flew through the air at top speed. 

“Bloody brilliant, Hermione,” he whispered. 

With slightly trembling hands, he put them on, flexing his fingers. The leather was supple enough to bend, but sturdy enough for them to resist a bit, a sensation he'd always found oddly satisfying. He admired them a few moments before standing up. He was still nervous, but some of it had eased; maybe there wouldn't be quite the same level of childish enthusiasm, but if he’d gotten that rush of sensations from just the gloves, then surely there was some hope that that part of himself wasn't lost completely. 

He went over to the small closet by the front door, and pulled out his broom, preparing to Apparate to a point just a few miles away from the Burrow. 

“Maybe it’s a small step. But it’s a step,” he said, with a final smile down at his gloves before he blinked out of sight.

 

 


	9. I Believe I Can Fly (There's Always A Second Shoe)

**A.N. Squeezing it in under the wire, but power outages, stomach flu, and currently bronchitis have slowed me down. For those in different time zones, this isn't an April Fools!**

**S.N. First, there's been mention that Ron has over reacted to some things, and Hermione has underreacted. Absolutely! Myself and others with similar conditions have often overreacted to very simple things, things that otherwise wouldn't even make us blink. I've seen people sob and throw fits over spilling a drink. I've gotten nasty because ‘I know what you're thinking! Don't try to tell me you don't!’ It's frustrating as hell because you never know when it'll pop up. On the flip side, dealing with someone who sometimes has erratic emotional shifts, you DO start to mask your reactions, partly because you're in shock yourself, and partly because you don't want to escalate the situation. Are they going to get upset that the coffee was poured in the wrong Mug? Or are they going to kiss your cheek and thank you for making it? You have no clue, so unconsciously you start to mute or put off your own reactions--something that will unfold more as the story progresses. Life isn't a straight line, so things that may seem to be tied up or forgotten will creep back in.**

**This chapter, however, is mostly happy; reconnecting with yourself and loved ones is super important, and I want to showcase those moments with Ron (as well as his relationships with Harry and his family, in future chapters.) Of course, there's always that whisper that it can't ALWAYS go well.....to the point you're almost satisfied to be proven right.....**

 

It was early enough that only the sound of birds cut through the still morning air. Ron stepped from the line of trees, the top of the Burrow just visible in the distance. It wasn't going to be a very long flight, since he wanted to start work on the building today, but it would be enough to give him the freedom of motion so it wouldn't feel like he was doing drills. Clear of any overhanging branches, he mounted his broom and rose into the air; his broom pulled left into a current, but he easily brought it under control. 

He hovered high above the ground, taking in the scenery, the familiar sights of his childhood that he hadn't paid much attention to of late. There was a small herd of cows nibbling at the new spring grass. A plot of land that had been a messy, weedy tangle had been cleared off, and small saplings had been planted. Up ahead and to the right, the old Waycroft cottage was falling in, which meant the old man that used to come by to take care of it had died, or else he was too old to do it himself anymore. Ron flew higher, putting on a small burst of speed. It was nice out here; quiet, where he could hear himself think. 

Wanting to put his new gloves to the test, he did a quick barrel roll, pleased when his grip didn't slide at all. A flash of memory came to him of the twins teaching him how to do tricks, and he wondered if he could still do any. Holding his breath, he tightened his hands on the broom and pulled up, the muscles in his thighs clenching as he did a loopdeloop--something that always made his mum nervous whenever she caught any of them doing it. A rush of accomplishment rushed through him along with the blood, and he laughed. Looked like he hadn't lost his touch after all. 

He continued to make his way to the Burrow in that fashion, zigzagging off at top speed in a random direction before getting back on course, or slowing down to try out an old Quidditch move. To his great relief, he realized he was actually enjoying himself--he was already looking forward to a game of Quidditch with Harry and Ginny, and seeing if he could get himself back into form. The pleasure wasn't as intense as it had been when he was younger, but he found that didn't disappoint him much. When he was younger, a large part had been the thrill of.....it was hard to explain, but a sort of newness, the rush of not-quite-danger. It was only natural to lose that with age, wasn't it? Now, it was more of a familiar excitement, of seeing what he was capable of and testing his limits. There also wasn't that sickish teenage worry about whether or not he was going to make himself look like a tit. Most of all, he felt _alive._ Like he was in his own body, and connecting to the world around him. It wasn't like he had been afraid it would be, either feeling nothing, or just a boring method of getting from one place to another. 

Swooping low over the Burrow, he swung his leg over the broom and hopped off as it skimmed several feet over the ground, running slightly so he didn't fall down. Only mildly out of breath, he gripped the broom as it slowed to a stop, and he leaned it against his dad’s old shed. He took off the gloves Hermione had given him, and tucked them carefully into his pocket with a smile; her gift would definitely be seeing use in the future. 

“Ron? That you?”

Ron turned around to find his dad stepping out of the kitchen to cross the yard, and he waved.

“Yeah, s’me! Thought I'd get started on your building--just tell me which way you want it to face, and then you can go back inside where it’s warm.”

“Son, your mum’s on her spring cleaning tear. If I go back inside, she’ll try to find a way for me to be useful. Are you sure there isn't anything else out here I could help with?” His dad asked with pleading, hopeful eyes. 

Ron laughed, remembering all the times he used to sneak out to the shed to ‘help’ his dad. With a wave towards a nearby tree stump, he said, “Sure, I think a managerial position just opened up.”

 

 

“You're going to have to get off my lap sometime, you know,” Hermione said to the large orange ball of fluff draped over her thighs. 

Crookshanks merely gave a feline snort and burrowed deeper, letting her know that although he was a cat, _he_ would be the one doing any ignoring in this relationship. 

“Oh, alright. I suppose I can just use Accio if I need anything. At least, until it’s time to get ready,” she relented. 

She continued to stroke him with one hand, and picked up her book with the other, but couldn't seem to focus on the words before her. Not surprising, since she was too excited about her date later to pay much attention to anything else; something she would have rolled her eyes over when she was younger, before she had the experience to understand how significant such a simple event could be. Tonight wasn't going to be some huge formal occasion, but the fact that Ron was in a good enough place mentally to even _want_ to do anything was amazing. Things were going so well.....and that was a large part of what was making her nervous. There had been times, she reflected sadly, over the last couple of years where Ron had good periods, and seemed on the brink of pulling himself out of the darkness. And just as she thought that it was finally the right time to say something, he’d slide back down again where she couldn't reach him. 

And that, or at least something very similar, was going to happen again. Ron might be having a good spell--even a longer, more stable one--but that wouldn't last. He was going, at some time or another, hit a low point. Hopefully the potion and therapy would help to ease that, but it wouldn't stop it completely. And as much as she cherished the time they could now spend together as a couple, she didn't want that to be part of what dragged him down. 

To add to her worry, she had taken a risk. Knowing that Ron was feeling conflicted about his therapy, she had wanted to do something to both show support, and to commemorate his first step. Quidditch wasn't her strong suit, and she knew he would want to pick any major equipment out himself. But flying gloves were practical enough that he could get use out of them, while also being nice enough to let him know she cared. 

Normally, most people wouldn't find this a problem; they could just buy the gift, have it set to be delivered, and be happy that they were bringing a loved one a bit of joy. Unfortunately, the last time she had gotten him a gift hadn't gone well--not well at all. She had only meant to be thoughtful! She had assumed that they had reached that point in their relationship that random gifts, small tokens of affection were alright. Noticing that his watch had taken quite a bit of wear and tear while they were on the run and the months afterwards, and thinking that he might like to save it, since it had been an important birthday gift, she had bought him a new one. Nothing very fancy; in fact, she had made sure to get an especially sturdy one to endure harsh training, and specially Charmed in a few helpful ways. She had been excited to give it to him, expecting him to be happy.....

But he hadn't been. Far from it, in fact. Rather than the smile she had pictured lighting up his face, it had been curiously blank, before creasing in anger. He’d snapped at her about being able to buy his own things, at first, before going of into a rant about not wanting their relationship to be about one-upping each other with presents. When she’d tried to point out that she simply enjoyed getting him something, and wasn't expecting anything in return, he’d gotten even angrier and accused her of thinking he was too poor or cheap to buy her anything. Nothing she said seemed to help, and he had ended up storming out, leaving her horribly confused, since just the month before he’d gotten her a set of hair combs, since he knew she liked to use them to keep her hair out of her face when she wore it down. 

Harry had tried to mediate, and had gotten his head taken off for his trouble, and since Ron just got mad every time it was brought up, she had to drop the subject without ever knowing what, exactly, she had done wrong. It had been just one of the many times that both of them were speaking similar yet different languages, without anyone to translate. She was certain that it had all made sense to Ron at the time, but try as she might, she hadn't been able to figure it out. Since then, she had stuck to very small impersonal items, strictly at Christmas and his birthday.

Things were different now, she tried to tell herself. She was just being silly; he wasn't going to react that way this time. Still, the memory made her stomach churn, wishing she had perhaps given them to him herself so she didn't have to wait so long to find out. 

There was a flash from the fire, and Harry’s large, green head popped up. “Oh good, you're in! “S’okay for me to come through?”

Hermione put aside her book, but Crookshanks firmly refused to budge. “Sure, it looks like I'm going to be here for awhile.”

Harry disappeared, then stepped through a few moments later, coming in and plopping down beside her, with a scratch for Crookshanks. “I was afraid you might be out. It’s been so busy the past few days, I wanted to catch up some.”

Since Crookshanks was rumbling happily at the attention from two people, she took the opportunity to reposition herself to comfortably face Harry. “Me, too. I meant to Floo call last night, but I fell asleep. Is Ginny coming?”

He shook his head. “No, there’s Harpy business she’s dealing with. Some friction on the team, so she’s away today.”

“But she’ll be back for dinner at the Burrow tomorrow, right?” Hermione asked, frowning.

“Yeah, should be; why, is something wrong?” Harry asked, picking up on her mood.

She shook her head. “No, not really. It was just that Ron was going to ask the two of you to play a bit of Quidditch, and I was hoping you'd both say yes.”

“Really?” Harry asked, grinning in surprise. “That’s--well, that’s brilliant! Of course we’d love to. Merlin, It’s been ages since he’s joined in a game--is he really feeling that much better?”

“I'm not exactly sure,” she said cautiously. “He _is_ feeling better, but he’s also trying to test his limits, so it’s hard to tell yet just how much he can handle at the moment. Have you talked to him recently?”

“No. Like I said, the last few days have been busy. I barely get a chance to say good morning before one or the other of us is called away to do something else. Did something happen? I know he was supposed to see Hitchens again.”

“I don't want to tell more than what Ron is ready for everyone to know, but I know he was going to talk about this part with you anyway. Part of his therapy is trying to get back into the habit of doing things he used to enjoy. But Ron seems to be afraid that other people won't think that’s very important, and not something he should be focusing on. So if you could give Ginny a heads up about any teasing.....I know she wouldn't mean anything by it, but he’s sensitive about it right now.”

Harry sat back, stretching an arm out along the back of the sofa. “Yeah, I can see why he’d think that. Some people probably wouldn't see why it’s important. But.....it’s not the same, but when the whole Voldemort and Chosen One thing was going on, sometimes I needed something like Quidditch. Doing things like that helps you feel more......normal, you know? Like, there’s still crap you have to deal with, but you're not _that_ different from everyone else. Reckon Ron could use that. You know how he can isolate himself, even when we ask him to join something.....”

She did; often just getting him to go to lunch or to the pub after work was like pulling teeth. But she had the feeling that spending all that time alone in an empty flat didn't make him happy, either. 

“And I’ll tell Ginny. You're right, she wouldn't mean anything by it, but like she says, there’s that weird sibling thing where you do or say something that you wouldn't to other people, even though you don't set out to. And you know how both of them get when they’re on edge. That’s one of the reasons she hasn't been around much, since she’s been irritated with the team issues.”

“Good. I know I'm probably worrying too much, but I just want to make sure everything goes alright for him,” Hermione explained, twisting a strand of hair between her fingers.

“Does that mean you'll be up on a broom with us tomorrow?” Harry asked, snickering.

Hermione stuck her tongue out at him, wrinkling her nose. “You're so clever! No, I'll be there to watch though. And......I did get him a present, to, you know, show support.”

At that, Harry raised an eyebrow. “Really? What did he say?”

“Nothing, yet,” she sighed. “I had them delivered, so I've no idea if his reaction was good, bad, or indifferent. I'm hoping for the first, bracing myself for the other two.”

Harry twisted his wrist a bit to give her shoulder a small squeeze. “I'm sure he loved--what was it, by the way?”

“A pair of flying gloves. The dark, glossy red leather ones with the Gripping and Waterproof Charms.”

“Setting aside my jealousy, I think Ron will love them, especially since you gave them. Don't tell him I told you, but I happen to know for a fact that he stashed away every wrapper from every Chocolate Frog you ever gave him.”

“He did not!” She protested, even as she blushed. 

“Did so,” Harry nodded. “Swear it.”

Hermione smiled, not bothering to mention the limited edition flavor Sugar Quill tins she had turned into memento boxes. “I just hope he likes these. Or at least doesn't think think that I'm expecting him to fly on some kind of regular schedule now. Or that I don't think he can pick things out for himself. Or--”

“Hermione?”

She gave herself a shake, forcing herself to stop rambling. “Yes?”

“You're worried, aren't you. That Ron will go back to the way he was before.”

“It’s not so much as going back to any certain way,” she said, tilting her head back against the sofa. “It’s knowing that he's going to have bad spells, and not being sure exactly how bad they’ll be, or if I’ll be able to know what he actually means when he's in one of them.”

“You should probably talk about that with him, don't you think?”

Hermione snorted. “Oh, sure. I can picture it now; ‘I'm having an amazing time on our first date, Ron! By the way, I'm afraid that you're going to become cold and unpredictable and emotionally distant, and that your sarcasm will become hurtful instead of humorous. Fancy an icecream?”

“Okay, so maybe it’s not exactly a first date topic. You should still talk about it _sometime,_ though. I've noticed you've been trying to be very careful in how you react, but you can't stay on high alert all the time. It’s not healthy, and Ron wouldn't want that.”

“I know. And I've already decided that I need to be honest with him. But this.....” She gave her head a decisive shake. “No. I’ll tell him when he actually does something that hurts my feelings, or that I don't understand, but telling him that I'm worried about things that _might_ happen make it sound like I doubt him. He's more sensitive to that kind of thing than I realized when we were younger, and right now, he’s struggling with his confidence.”

Harry gave a resigned sigh. “Alright, I can see your point. Depending on the mood he's in at the time and how he interprets what you say, he might think that you're _expecting_ him to fail, or something. Still, you will tell him when something actually isn't right?”

“When I can say, ‘It hurts when you do or say Y,’ or, ‘I don't know how to help when you do or say Z.’ It needs to be specific, otherwise he’s going to be in a constant state of worry that he's doing the wrong thing--and that isn't fair.”

“You're probably right. And like I said, as long as you talk about something when there’s a problem.....Anyway,” he continued, his tone brightening, “Aside from all of that, how are you feeling? Don't you guys have a date tonight?”

“We’re going to the cinema,” Hermione said, knowing she was smiling like a teenager asked to her first dance. “And a bit of shopping. We didn't want to do anything too big; just fun.”

“And in Muggle London, there’s less chances of people recognizing you and trying to stop you to chat,” Harry pointed out.

“That, too. I’m just.....I'm so excited! It’s been so long since the two of us have done something like that.” She nibbled her lower lip. “Harry? Can I ask you something?”

Harry blinked, but nodded. “I wasn't expecting you to ask me for dating advice, but shoot. Want to know the best way to put the moves on him during the film?”

She smacked him with a small decorative pillow, laughing before becoming serious again. “No, I can take care of anything like that, thank you. I just, well, I plan on asking him about how his flying went, of course, and if he wants to bring anything up relating to his therapy, naturally I'd be happy to talk about it with him. But other than that.....do you think it would be alright if I didn't? Talk about it, I mean. It’s going to be a subject that comes up a lot, but I thought that Ron might like it if I--if I focused a bit more on the parts of him aside from that.”

An obviously crude joke flashed through Harry’s eyes, then settled on a more thoughtful expression. “What, you mean asking him things about work, his plans for a holiday if we can ever get him to take one.....things like that?”

She nodded.

Harry was silent for several long minutes, staring off into the distance. When he spoke again, it was slowly, picking his words with care. “Do you remember in sixth year, when I dated Ginny?” He asked, waiting for her to nod again. “Ginny.....Ginny knew when to tell me to pull my head out of my arse, that’s true, but there was more than that. With everything going on....I felt so fucking _alien,_ you know? I just wanted to be a normal teenager--not some hero, not the bloody Chosen One. And when we were together, Ginny didn't really talk about all that. She talked about Quidditch, and her family, and classes, and what she wanted to do after school......the things all of us should've been able to focus on. And it might sound weird, but her doing that made it easier for me to talk about the other things.”

Hermione considered that. “So you're saying that’s a good idea with Ron? To not always make his condition and treatment the main focus?”

Harry bobbed his head once. “Yeah. I mean, all of that’s going to come up, isn't it? Just like things did with me. You can't get away from it. But I think Ron would like to feel like you were interested in all of him. So a date that’s just a normal date sounds really.......nice.”

She breathed out slowly, her shoulders relaxing. “I was hoping so. I just wanted to run it past someone to make sure it didn't sound like I was trying to avoid the subject, or anything like that.”

“It doesn't. It just sounds like you're doing the best you can to be emotionally supportive without smothering him with it or making him feel like that's the only thing that matters.”

“Thanks. I felt like it was the right thing to do, but I wanted to get someone else’s perspective, and you're the person who knows Ron as well as I do.”

“You know I'm happy to help if I can,” Harry smiled, which faded as he checked his watch. “I'd love to stay longer, but it’s my day off and I have to go do adult crap. You two have fun tonight, and I’ll see you at the Burrow tomorrow.”

“Thanks for coming by, Harry. I feel better after talking,” Hermione said, stretching up to hug him, causing Crookshanks to grumble and leap to the floor. 

“Glad I could help. And don't worry too much, yeah? There’s gonna be some rough times, but things’ll work out.”

Once Harry was gone, Hermione had a halfhearted lunch, did some cleaning, and made a quick trip to the market to get a few items she was low on, before coming home to get ready for her date. An hour later and half of her closet strung out on her bed, she wondered how it was possible to own so many clothes, and still have absolutely nothing to wear. Some clothes were out, since they were for work. Others were too nice--while she was thrilled to be going to see a film with Ron, it didn't call for formal wear. Other things weren't nice enough--clothes that were slightly faded, with loose threads, that she wore when working around the flat or running errands that required her to do lifting and moving. She finally settled on a black floral print dress that hit just above her knees, topped off with a soft, dusty rose colored cardigan. Finishing off the look, she added a pair of strappy but low heels, and swept her hair up loosely in the combs Ron had given her, before adding a touch of lipstick. She was just wondering if maybe she should change into something else when there was a knock on her door, which, given the time, was probably Ron there to pick her up. Grabbing her purse and securing her wand up her sleeve, she went to answer it, her heart doing an erratic dance in her chest.

The door had barely opened before he pushed his way in, swooping her up and spinning her in a few circles before setting her back down on her feet.

“What’s that all about?” She laughed breathlessly, staggering a bit as she tried to get her feet back under her.

“For this morning. For being the most bloody brilliant witch of our age,” he answered, grinning down at her. “How’d you know that was exactly what I needed?”

The worry she had felt since this morning melted away like a snowflake in the sun. “I was hoping you'd like them. They were a good choice, then?”

His smile softened. “They were--and the fact that you thought to do it was even better.”

For some reason, his appreciation made her feel strangely shy, words lodging in her throat.

“And you look terrific, by the way--crap, I didn't mess anything up, did I? Sorry, I was just excited--”

“You didn't, don't worry! Besides, I'm glad you were excited; I had been worrying if you would like them or not, but judging by your reaction, I shouldn't have.”

“Definitely not. It gave me exactly the jolt of confidence I needed to get up in the air, just when I started to doubt myself.”

“Did they really? I'd been afraid that might happen, so I thought they might give you a boost.”

“Well, you were right, and I’ll tell you more about it while we shop, if you're ready to go? I know we didn't set up an exact time.”

“I'm ready; just let me go make sure the lamp in my room is out,” Hermione said, turning away from him to go check.

 

 

 

Ron jammed his hands in his pockets as she left the room, momentarily embarrassed by his outburst--definitely not the air of sexy, adult competency he was going for. Still, she’d seemed happy enough, so maybe he hadn't bollocksed up the afternoon completely. He looked down at himself, suddenly wondering if he was underdressed. After finishing up for the day at the Burrow, he’d stopped by his flat for a shower and a change of clothes. As an Auror, he had to be able to blend in when going into Muggle London when under cover, so he was at least halfway certain he should be alright; he was wearing dark brown cords, a blue and green plaid flannel shirt, and a dark green, slightly puffy sleeveless jumper that Muggles seemed to be obsessed with recently. Hermione hadn't seemed to think it was anything unusual, so he must have done a decent job. He patted his pocket, making sure his wallet, complete with Muggle money, was secure. 

He heard her leave her room and step into, from the sound of shoes on tile, the bathroom, and he tried to keep from fidgeting. He’d managed to keep himself busy most of the day, between working on his dad’s building and slithering out of his mother’s attempts to get him to ‘just help with a few other things, it won't take long at all.’ While it hadn't been enough to wear him out, he had been able to keep his mind off his date, which was now running wild in all the ways it could go wrong. At his age, he felt more than a little stupid to be this unsure, but it wasn't like they’d had very many chances for proper dates--snogging around the Burrow and other related areas didn't count--and now he felt sure he had lost the hang of it. What if he embarrassed himself by......eating with the wrong fork, or something? Wait. Popcorn. You ate that with your hands. He was safe. On that front, at least. 

“Is something wrong?” Hermione asked, startling him out of his thoughts.

He considered saying he was fine, but the truth popped out before he realized it. “Not really. I just....It’s been awhile, hasn't it? I guess I'm just not entirely sure what to do, even though I want to do it.”

“Well,” Hermione said, with a playful smile, “I'd say we pretty much do what we would usually do--only since this is a date, you smile in the bookstore and pretend not to mind how long it takes, and offer to carry any heavy bags.”

Ron threw back his head, laughing, his nerves easing as the familiarity of being with Hermione settled over him. “I think I can handle that; you ready?”

She took his hand. “Definitely.”

 

 

Hermione, as frustratingly usual, was right. Walking around Diagon Alley with her was much like it had been when they were in school, only with much less she’ll-never-like-me-that-way angst, and more hand holding. There were whispers, of course, as they strolled from shop to shop, but aside from a few smiles and nods, no one approached them, which he was thankful for. He’d never gotten the hang of people coming up and thanking him for.....well, doing what a lot of _them_ had done, something he’d never really thought of as being a choice. And today of all days, he didn't want to be mumbling and stuttering some kind of half-arsed reply when he was trying, for once, to give the impression of having himself together. 

They were in no rush, but he felt Hermione pick up the pace ever so slightly as the bookstore came into view, her eyes lighting up in a way that always gave him a small twinge of jealousy when he was younger. Now, he merely smiled and lengthened his stride a bit, holding open the door that she nearly let hit her in her haste to get to a display. 

“I'm going to check out the used magazines; I expect you'll be alright without me for a few minutes?” He asked.

“Hm?” Hermione was already flipping through pages. “Oh! Yes, of course! There's just a few I want to look for, I won't be long. Just come and find me when you're done!”

Knowing that for Hermione, ‘a few minutes’ in a bookstore or library could stretch well over an hour, Ron wandered off to the back, where the used and discounted books and magazines were kept--the Weasley section, he thought dryly, but not without a certain amount of nostalgic fondness. Everything was arranged in neat, tidy sections according to subject, so he was easily able to find the Quidditch section. Flipping through the stacks, he felt a melancholy stab in his chest at each unfamiliar cover, knowing how much lost time they represented. Then he snorted at himself. Well, he was fixing that, wasn't he? It was bollocks, but sulking about it wouldn't help. He paused, and shook his head. There was something wrong about your mother’s words (or reasonably close) coming out of your own head......But, thinking of his mum, and looking at the magazines, he was suddenly reminded of when his mum used to buy him a bundle when she had a few extra Knuts, sometimes to cheer him up when he was sick, and sometimes just completely out of the blue. He would shut himself in his room, or find an out of the way spot away from the Burrow, and spend hours stretched out reading, feeling like a king--especially if she sent him off with a snack. He sort of wish he had appreciated that more at the time.

Selecting a little over a dozen of the latest issues, Ron went to the front and paid, noticing Hermione standing at a shelf, already with several thick books in her arms. 

“You still looking?” He asked, wondering if they would be able to carry her haul.

“Just about; I only need to find one....no, two, more,” she assured him.

Knowing she wouldn't go any faster if he stood over her, he went over to a small area with chairs, sat down on a comfortable one, and pulled out a magazine from his bag. Instead of reading it, though, he watched Hermione. It was an old, favorite pastime of his; lost in another world, she would walk slowly amongst the books, gently trailing her fingers over the spines, her lips pushing in and out ever so slightly as she read the titles. 

Like many other things, it had been a long time since he had seen her this relaxed; usually, when they were together (always with Harry, of course), she was more uptight, reserved. Always choosing her words carefully, or not speaking at all if he was in one of his bleaker moods. It was nice, seeing her more open and comfortable around him. As if feeling his eyes on her, she looked up, smiling when she met his eyes. She held up a book she had just plucked from the shelf, and nodded towards the cash register, signalling that she was done. Ron stuffed his magazine back into the bag with the others and walked over to join her, rather surprised to find that she’d stopped at only six books.

“What me to carry that?” He asked, nodding to the bag that the salesclerk passed her.

“I didn't mean that literally!” She laughed, taking it herself. “Besides, you know I like to carry new books.”

True. He remembered arguing about that in second or third year; she claimed that carrying them built the anticipation. And he had shot back that that might be true for other things, but surely not _books_ \--at least the ones she tended to read. 

“Quidditch Supply, then?” He suggested hopefully, practically able to smell the shelves of new equipment already. 

“Well, I had thought that it might be a good day to try on a few dresses, maybe look into that new hair cream.....” she teased, before giving in. “Yes, let’s go; you've indulged me with my books, so I can certainly stand to do the same while you fawn over brooms.”

“Oh, come on!” He said, taking her hand and leading her excitedly to the door. “It’s more than just brooms, it’s-it’s _Quidditch!_ A sport built on athleticism and strategy, a--”

“A noble art,” Hermione intoned, mimicking his reverence, the corners of her lips twitching.

“Noble? Don't think I'd go that far,” he admitted, thinking of several matches, and those were just the ones he’d seen personally. “But still, more than just brooms.”

“I'll take your word for it. Wait, we’re just about there--for some reason I thought it was farther along,” she said, squinting at the sign in puzzlement.

“Only because you never pay attention to it. You sure you don't mind coming in?” He asked, not wanting her to be bored on what was, technically, their second first date.

She squeezed his hand. “I don't mind at all,” she said softly.

 

 

 

Over an hour and a half later, he thought she might change her mind; he had moved through the store at a good clip, picking up a few things he couldn't resist, and that hadn't taken much time, considering. But then he’d fallen into a casual conversation with the woman behind the counter about some new rule changes he hadn't been aware of.

 

“You can't tell me they actually made that legal! They’ve always slapped down on any kind of petition--every review board I’ve ever heard of always voted unanimously against it!” Ron spluttered in disbelief, leaning harder into the counter.

“Swear to Merlin, it’s the truth!” She said, smacking the counter for emphasis. “Me Da would be rolling in his grave, but it’s already written up and everything!”

“I can't see it lasting long, though, can you? I mean, sooner or later something’ll happen to get it repealed,” he said, tossing a new Quidditch handbook in with the rest of his things waiting to be rung up. “And another thing, I--” he caught Hermione off to the side, an odd smile on her face. “Um, I guess that’ll be all for today, thanks.”

He paid quickly and shoved his change into his pocket, grabbing his bag in the same hand carrying his magazines. Turning away from the register, he went to join Hermione, who had already moved over to the door.

“Sorry about that,” he said with a sheepish smile. “What were you thinking back there? You were looking at me kind of funny.”

Hermione shook her head as the bell over the door tinkled behind them. “Don't be, I wasn't bothered. And I was just thinking, back there when you were talking, about how much it was like when you’d get with Harry and Ginny in the common room back at Hogwarts. I swear, the three of you could go on for hours! Seeing you able to do that today--and talking to a stranger, which you never really do if you don't have to--it, well, it just made me happy.”

Ron considered that. It was true, the only times, outside of a case, that he got in anyway excited about something was usually in an angry way. Snarling and sniping at someone was different than having a lively debate--a subtlety that was often lost on some people that ever watched him and Hermione. And it had been draining enough to talk with the people he cared about; he’d never had much energy or interest to make the effort with other people, something he knew was hindering his otherwise good record on the force.

“We’ll see if you feel the same after I get boned up on everything that I missed--you might have to duck out on a few lunches,” he grinned.

“Oh, I don't know,” she waved her hand in an airy manner. “You might be surprised what I pick up. I might have my own opinions about the Hokey-Pokey Half-Twist, Or the Tutti-Fruitti Tuck and Roll.”

“Or maybe we should just keep you stocked up on books for those days,” he said in amusement, glancing up at the clock as they passed Gringotts. “Do you want to drop all of this off at your place before going to the cinema? The books aren't so bad, but the Quidditch gear could earn some odd looks.”

“We’ve got about an hour before they start showing any films, so we might as well, and have a Butterbeer while we wait,” she agreed.

Once back at her flat, bags set on the sofa and Butterbeers opened, Ron asked, “I'm surprised you haven't asked more about how things went this morning.”

Hermione look a sip, then licked a few drops off her lips. “I didn't want to be pushy about it. So it was good, then?”

He spun his bottle slowly with his fingers, letting the bottom roll on the tabletop. “Well, you already know how much the gloves helped. But actually flying......I’d forgotten how much fun it actually is. For work, it’s just drill, and getting from point A to point B. But today I was actually looking at things around me, and doing some of the tricks I used to do when I was a kid....It was nice, you know?”

“Regretting not taking up a career in Quidditch?”

Ron laughed. “Hardly. If I had to do it every day, I think it’d lose some of its appeal, and I never did really get over having pre-game jitters. Besides, eventually I'd have to go up against Ginny, and she’d never let me live it down if she scored on me professionally!”

Hermione groaned. “And at every family gathering, you'd both be arguing about whether or not it was a fair shot, or something or other. You're right, stick with the Aurors!”

“Still, it was fun. I think I might actually look into joining the department team, like Harry’s always hinting at.”

“Ron, that’s great! So, after today, do you think you’ll have an easier time? With what Hitchens asked you to do, I mean. Getting back into the things you enjoy.”

Slowly, he nodded. “Yeah, I think so--at least, this part of it. Now that I've started, it makes more sense now. I always ignored it when people would tell me I was focusing on the job too much, that it wasn't healthy. And all the stories about Aurors who couldn't handle retirement, or had to be medically discharged after being injured. They couldn't cope, didn't know what to do with themselves. I didn't think that would be me, but maybe I was closer to ending up that way than I thought. One thing can't be _everything,_ even when it’s something important, can it?”

“You and Harry taught me that. Remember how I nearly burned myself out with that Time-Turner? And I love my job, but if I didn't have my books, or friends, or even Crookshanks, I think I’d go mad. I know you were also worried about what other people would think, but if they can't understand a basic human need like that.....” she shrugged.

“I know a lot of people probably wouldn't understand, but they aren't people I’d be talking about it with, anyway. As long as I’m fine with it, and the people whose opinions I actually care about, it doesn't matter much. And I know that you, Harry, and the rest of the family are behind me on it. Well, knowing George, he probably won't be able to resist saying something like I got to start out easier than he did or something, but he knows basically what it’s like to go through something like this, and I know that jokes aside, he’d understand.”

“And you do still plan to play with Harry and Ginny tomorrow, right?”

“Huh? Oh! Yeah, If both of them can stay after lunch. George and Ange might like to get in on it too. Come to think of it, that’ll be another first; so far I’ve only flown alone, I haven't had to focus on a game or a teammate.”

She reached across the table and linked their fingers together. “You’ll have to wear your gloves for luck, then.”

He smiled. “Of course! Besides, I have to show them off, don't I?”

They sat in silence as they finished off their Butterbeer, the light coming through Hermione’s kitchen window becoming dimmer as the sun set. 

“We should probably go, if we want to get good seats,” Ron pointed out, using his wand to send their bottles to the trash.

“You're right, especially since we still have to decide what to see. I'm not even sure what’s paying, are you?”

He shrugged. “Nope. Didn't particularly care; I just wanted to be with you, he said honestly.

“That’s terribly, terribly sweet of you,” she said, standing and coming around the table to kiss him on the cheek. “And I’ll remind you of it if we end up seeing a cheesy romance.”

 

 

The theater they went to was older, the nap of the carpet worn, and the frames holding the posters for movies slightly fogged over with age. But it was still well kept, and the smell of buttered popcorn filling the air had their mouths watering. 

“You take care of the movie, and I’ll get the snacks,” Ron said, knowing which he’d rather be in charge of.

“Feeling brave, are we?” Hermione asked. I’ll be over to help you carry everything--do you have Mu-- _money?”_

He patted his pocket. “Don't worry, they’ve made us practice, so I have it down. I’m going to go now, since that line looks pretty short.”

He strode over to the concession stand while Hermione dealt with the tickets, the lady behind the counter nearly calling out at him to stop before realizing he was with Hermione. The line moved surprisingly fast, but it was around the time most people would be having dinner, and the teens wouldn't be out until later. Waiting his turn, there was a momentary sensation that all eyes were on him, and every whispered comment was directed his way. It only lasted a few seconds, but it was very much a reminder that the potion was just a patch and not a cure. Worried that it might happen again, he looked around, but nothing happened. No one was really looking at him, outside of the way one normally took in strangers in your general area. 

Two large tubs of popcorn, a giant drink to split, and an alarming stack of brightly colored boxes later, he and Hermione carefully balanced everything as they made their way to the correct film.

“So what are we watching?” Ron asked. “Action? Horror? Animated?”

“Romance,” Hermione said cheerfully, walking up the lighted aisle. 

“Oh. Well then. Right. Romance it.....is!”

“A romantic comedy,” she clarified. “Heavier on the comedy.” 

“Thank Merlin,” he whispered behind her. “Was afraid I’d have to bolt my popcorn so I could take a kip.”

“Where do you want to sit?” Hermione asked, pausing at the rows of seats. 

“I hear the back row is good for snogging,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

He was surprised when Hermione marched to the back, only to enter the second to last row.

“Tease,” he said playfully, folding himself into the seat beside her. 

There was some shuffling as they distributed the snacks, nearly knocking the drink out of the cupholder in between them. The popcorn was still warm, and as they munched away, slightly tinny Muggle music came from the speakers while adverts flickered on the screen. A few more people filtered in, but either this film had been out for awhile, or else it wasn't very good, since the seats were less than half full by the time the lights dimmed and went out, the sound roaring out and making them jump. Ron finished off his popcorn, sampled several of the sweets before saving the rest for later, and then ‘helped’ Hermione with her popcorn, only paying half attention to the movie. It wasn't bad, but it wasn't really his thing. He laughed at the funny bits, but he spent most of his time watching Hermione out of the corner of his eye, especially once she had finished eating and had leaned into him. 

Darting his eyes around, he turned to the opposite side, raising his arm until the cuff of his shirt was close to his face, and performed a silent Breath Freshening Charm. That taken care of, with his other arm he performed one of the few cultural things the Wizarding World shared with Muggles; the time honored Yawn and Stretch. Naturally, Hermione didn't miss it, but aside from a quirked eyebrow to let him know she knew what was going on, she merely snuggled close to him.

Completely ignoring the film now, he spent the next ten minutes or so toying with strands of her hair, or running his fingers along her shoulder and neck. She shuddered slightly at his touch, her breath hitching, as she nuzzled her head into the crook of his shoulder, reaching for his free hand. He kissed her temple, filled with a sudden urge to give her a good snog, but he didn't. Wait, why didn't he? They weren't going to be shagging anytime soon, but a snog in the back of a dark theater was hardly that, was it? They’d already kissed, after all. No. He’d forgotten, they weren't in the very back. There was still a row behind them. Although with as empty as the place was, if it was clear, it was _like_ sitting in the very back.....

Stealthily, he turned his head to the side, further and further until--he met the knowing eyes of the middle-aged woman sitting behind him. He whipped his head back, his ears turning red. Shite! No good. There was an amused snort from behind him as the woman tapped his arm that was across the back of Hermione’s seat, and just as he worked up the courage to look, he saw that she was gliding over to the other section of seats--so quietly he’d think her a ghost if she hadn't been so solid--leaving the field clear. Bless you, Muggle Woman, whoever you are!

 

Alright. It was like flying a broom; you never really forgot how, did you? Just start, and instinct would take over. Give her a signal, see if she responded......He kissed her temple again, before tipping his head to kiss her cheek. It was an awkward angle, but awkward was basically his natural habitat, so that didn't stop him. She stirred, leaning forward slightly, and he started to withdraw before she turned to him, letting their lips brush together. Success! Would she let him do it again? She would! This one was a bit longer, and while there was nono tongue, he could tell that her lips were suspiciously minty. Did that mean she had......? Of course it did. Hot damn! More confident, he shifted in his seat so that he had a better angle, absently transferring their drink to his other side. Their mouths slid together again, slowly, breaking apart occasionally to plant smaller kisses on the cheeks or the corners of the other’s lips. It wasn't hot and heavy--there were still people around, and they didn't want to draw attention, but it was delightfully dizzying--bloody hell, had he said broom? This was miles better! He still wasn't.....well, by now he’d usually be feeling a bit tight in the trouser department. He wasn't there yet, but by the pounding in his chest, and the way he felt drawn to her again and again, he didn't think that would be too long in returning, either. 

Both of them blinked as people around them began to stir, realizing they had missed the ending of the film. Trading a small, secret smile, they gathered their trash and joined the small herd exiting, slowing for the bottleneck at the trash bin. Joining hands, they left the building, casually slipping into the alley before Apparating to Hermione’s flat. 

“Thanks for the date, Ron. I had a wonderful time,” Hermione told him, looking a bit flustered. Her cheeks were pink, and her hair was mussed in random places from his hands.

She looked gorgeous.

“I did, too,” he said, stepping closer. “Sorry you didn't get to finish the film.”

“The what?” She asked, her face wrinkling in confusion. “Oh! Oh, the--yes, well. It wasn't all that interesting, really.”

“No, there were definitely more interesting things going on,” he grinned.

“Are you trying to get me to say you were a good snog?” She asked, cocking her hip a bit.

“Weeeeellll, a little positive verbal reinforcement would help my confidence, you know.”

She pretended to think about it. “Hmmm. Sorry, but I think I’ll need a little more to go on before I pass judgement.”

Taking that as an invitation, he leaned down to kiss her, his hands spread against her back to pull her closer. She moaned softly as she stretched up to meet him, her fingers coming to play with the hair that hung over his collar. The kiss lasted several heartbeats, and when he pulled away, he was pleased to see she was as breathless as he felt.

“Well?”

She backed away, smiling mischievously. “It would be irresponsible to come to a conclusion after only two samples. I think it might take several sessions for me to decide.”

He thought about going for another one here and now, but decided against it; there was only so far he could stretch the definition of ‘taking it slow.’

“Well, you know I'm game for it, so anytime you want to try further experiments....”

Hermione laughed. “You're the one I’ll call on. Oh! Before I forget, here are your things!” She said, going over to the sofa to hand him his bags. “We’re still meeting at the Burrow tomorrow, right?”

He took the things he had bought earlier in the day, the plastic rings cutting into his hand. “Yeah, that's the plan. I know watching Quidditch won't exactly be your thing, but....”

She rose on her tiptoes to give his chin a quick peck. “But I’ll be happy to watch you, even so.”

“While sneaking glances at your book.”

“Well. Yes. but only small ones.”

Ron laughed, and backed away a few steps. “Alright, see you tomorrow then. And Hermione? I really did have a good time today. I hope we can do it--or something else--again, soon.”

Hermione smiled back, looking pleased. “I wouldn't mind it becoming a habit, myself. Get some rest, Ron; see you tomorrow.”

Knowing he couldn't put it off any longer, he Apparated a few streets away from his flat, wanting a walk in the cool air to work off some of the excitement. It didn't help much, for he practically floated down the street, grinning like a stunned troll. He was so caught up in replaying the evening that he passed the entrance to his building, and had to double back, although the smell as he entered the lobby brought him somewhat to his senses. Ugh. He’d have to do a Charm once he got to his flat.....

He climbed the stairs, already deciding that a hot bath and bed were in order. There was something off as he stepped into the hall, but he didn't really notice until he was closer to his door. There, stuck to it, was an envelope. He paused. Who would leave a note like that? He took another step forward. His name was on the envelope, but the handwriting was completely unfamiliar--in fact, it had a distinct form used by someone trying to disguise their writing; large block letters, almost childish. He frowned, setting his bags down and pulling out his wand. Earlier he had felt a flash of the paranoia that sometimes gripped him. This, though, was different. This was a feeling born of experience and training, a gut feeling that he'd learned to listen to. Using the memory of his date with Hermione, he sent his Patronus off with a quick message for Harry; training had drilled it into him you only proceed with backup.

Things had been going pretty brilliantly lately, what with his potion and first steps in therapy. And his date with Hermione......outstanding. But now, _now_ the long awaited shoe was dropping, that price that always came due when anything good happened. 

He was in his element, and the cynical part of himself was oddly comforted.

 

 

 

 

 

 


	10. Unclear and Semi-Present Danger (I Wish the Real World Would Just Stop Hasslin' Me)

**A.N. Hello everyone! Sorry for the delay. I thought that even with everything that was going on in April, I would be able to make my usual posting, and I almost did! And then the floods came.....If you live in the US, you've probably seen it on the news. We luckily weren't hit as badly as many were, but it was still a rough few days staying ahead of the water and trying to help other people. And, naturally, our area was the last to get power back. So I’ve been working hard to get this out, before I have to deal with taking a tree down (which still might fall onto my room, RIP) and installing new windows.**

**Story Notes: One of the things I hated about starting medication was that moment you could see the cracks. Nothing major, nothing that couldn't be controlled, but juuuuuuust enough for you to know that the fuzzy happy ending you knew wasn't coming (but secretly hoped you'd be The Exception) wasn't going to happen. There’s going to be more effort required. You're going to have to hunt for more tools that work for you, and figure out how to use them effectively, like a sad oragnutan playing with sticks. Still, you try to make the best of it. You've come this far, you've made progress and you're holding fairly steady. All you need is some time to get it all together. Unfortunately, the world doesn't have a pause button, and it’s more than capable of throwing new things at you to deal with.**

 

 

“Well, that’s no fan letter, Weasley, although the bastard is vague enough,” Selby said, standing beside Ron and Harry, all three gazing down at the letter.

“Didn't even toss in a pair of knickers, so it wouldn't have been one of the more memorable ones,” Ron answered dryly. 

“It’s still a threat, though. I just can't tell if they're being careful about what they give away, or if they aren't organized enough to have decided yet,” Harry added, his voice carrying a grim note. 

The note simply read: ‘You’ll get what’s coming to you when you least expect it.’ Not terribly original, but at the same time, just enough to keep a person jumping merely from the fact that it was so open to possibilities. 

“And you can't think of anyone who would have sent this?” Selby pressed.

 

Ron shook his head. “No. Any case I’m involved with is pretty much stuck, at the moment. Doing something like this would be an unnecessary risk, at this point--they’d have to know that threatening an Auror would just bring on a load of unwanted attention.”

“What about old cases?” Harry asked. “It’s not like a few haven't threatened us with what they'll do when they get out.”

But again, Ron had to say no. “Sorry, Harry, but I don't think so. No one’s even close to being released, and there hasn't been an escape. I'd say maybe someone out for revenge on their behalf, but to be honest I don't think any of them had someone that cared enough--and was still outside to do it.”

“Could it be a prank? That brother of yours is pretty famous for them.”

Ron tried to imagine George writing something this dull, which was already stretch of the imagination, then leaving it, knowing how paranoid Ron could get, his heart beating like a hammer as he sat alone in his flat, worrying......

“No. This wasn't George. He’s played a few sharp pranks before, but......not this. I'd have been able to tell if it was him,” Ron said decisively. 

 

Selby blew out a breath. “Well, that doesn't leave us many options then, does it? Unless there’s something in your personal life that might shed some light?”

“To be honest, sir, until recently I haven't had much of a personal life, and what I do have wouldn't result in this.”

“So we don't have any leads whatsoever?” Harry growled in frustration, raking a hand through already dishevelled hair. 

“I wouldn't say that,” Selby said slowly, his eyes narrowing.

“Sir?” Both asked in unison.

“I don't know. Just a hunch. Can't say, since there’s no evidence to back it up, and if it’s what I’m thinking, making accusations at this point will just bollocks everything up. Still, maybe we’ll know more once this has been processed,” he said, waving his hand at the letter and envelope.

Naturally, while every Auror was drilled in basic spells, and many went on to excel in more specialized areas, it would be up to another team to run through an exhaustive list of Tracing Spells, as well as the more mundane gruntwork of tracking down the source of parchment and ink. 

“And in the meantime?” Harry asked, clearly not pleased with Selby’s reticence. 

“Constant vigilance,” Ron answered for him. 

“And just when we were starting to get you loosened up,” Harry said, mournfully.

Ron rolled his eyes. “I'm not gonna start carrying around a hip flask or anything. And I seem to be taking it a lot better than you, so I don't think you should be worrying about me.”

Harry snorted. “You think I'm bad? Hermione’s going to go _spare_ when you tell her!”

“Which is why I wasn't going to,” Ron said, squinting again at the letter, still trying to find any clue in the handwriting.

“What? Ron, you have to tell her! She’ll find out anyway, and then she’ll save whoever this is the trouble by murdering you herself!”

“There’s no sense in worrying her until we can--”

“Weasley, Potter has a point, but even more important, have you considered that they might use your loved ones instead of targeting you directly?”

At that, Ron froze. “Fuck. _Fuck!_ I'd better get over there now--”

Selby made a sharp cutting motion. “No need; I've already sent a few over to watch, just in case. Miss Granger is pretty high profile herself, which either makes her even a more appealing target, or too big to go after for fear of attention. What about the rest of your family?”

Ron shook his head. “I pity the fool who tries to break into George’s--he has more than one nasty surprise set up. Ditto Bill and Fleur, and Charlie’s too far away. Percy just left on an extended business trip, Harry and Ginny can cover themselves, so that just leaves Mum and Dad. I'm not really worried about them, since the Burrow is heavily warded, and it’s much easier when you own your own building. As long as someone is watching Hermione tonight, things should be alright.”

Not only were wards stronger on property you owned, there was a lower risk of weak points that came from living in a flat, with boundaries coming so close together, and sometimes overlapping. Hermione had the ability to put up excellent Wards, he had no doubt, but her location wasn't exactly ideal--still, with her own Wards, plus an Auror or two on watch, she should be fine overnight until he could talk to her tomorrow. On Sundays, Hermione always had a guilty lie-in, napping and reading until she absolutely had to get ready to go somewhere. She’d head straight for the Burrow, and by then he could break it to her without making it sound worse than it was. 

“What about your place? I can spare a few more for guard duty,” Selby offered.

“No, sir. I appreciate it, but I think I’ll be fine. I doubt they’ll try anything tonight, since they know my guard’ll be up after that note, and anyway, I wouldn't mind the chance of luring them in. My brother’s aren't the only ones with.....inventive precautions.”

Selby raised an eyebrow. “You might be closer to that hip flask than you think.....alright, we’ll see how this plays out, for now. You’d be surprised with how many are satisfied at this point to have just put a scare into you.”

“If they think this is enough to scare Ron, they’re underestimating him,” Harry said, and the two traded a look. 

“Better them than us. Since we finally have a case with evidence we haven't gone over several hundred times, and is fresh, it’ll be getting priority until we have another break. For now, just keep going on, business as usual.”

“Yessir,” Ron and Harry said, as Selby got the letter ready to be sent off for further study.

“Is that all, Sir? Because if it is, I’d like to head home.”

Selby waved them off, grumbling about staying to finish up the paperwork. Ron and Harry, having no desire to get caught up in similar tasks, rapidly slunk out the door. 

“You are going to tell her, right?” Harry asked as they walked down the hall, their shoes echoing loudly in the empty space. “Because I don't think I can hide something like this.”

Ron popped one of the buttons on his shirt, feeling overheated. “Yeah, I'm going to tell her. Things are going too well between us for her to kill me, like you said. By tomorrow, I’ll have come up with a way to say it where she can see that it probably won't turn out to be a big deal, but that she should keep an eye out for anything suspicious, just in case.”

Harry shot him a look. “You will, huh? Let me know how that works out.”

“You don't sound like you have much faith in me,” Ron gave a thin smile.

“Oh, I have an infinite amount of faith in you,” Harry replied. “I just have more faith in Hermione seeing through anything you come up with. Look, you will be careful? I don't mean about telling Hermione--just.....just until we figure out what this is all about.”

Ron started to make a joke, but it died at the worry that had darkened his friend’s eyes. “‘Course I will! Just because I’m not falling apart, doesn't mean I'm not going to be careful. You knew this would be part of the job, and it isn't like it’s the first threat I’ve ever had.”

 

“Yeah, I know, but.....well, it’s usually on a job, when we’ve collared someone--and it’s always been directed at both of us.”

“What, so you're feeling left out?” Ron laughed.

Harry punched him in the arm. “No, you twat! Just worried.”

Ron slapped him on the shoulder. “Well, don't. Or at least, not as much as you are now. I promise I'll be careful, but I really don't think it'll amount to anything. Really, i'm just sort of glad for it, since everything else was going so well, I needed _something_ to go wrong to feel like there was a balance.”

Harry glanced at him as they continued down the hall. “That's sort of messed up.”

“Hence the therapy. But seriously, can you honestly tell me that you never once got a little uneasy when things were going well? And that once something went wrong, you didn't think, ‘ah, yes, familiar crap. I know how to handle crap.’”

 

“Well, yeah, but still......can't be healthy.”

 

Ron rolled his eyes as they stepped outside. “I don't think I’ll hit that level of healthy for a few more sessions yet, mate. There’s no sense in letting it get to me, though, so I'm gonna head home and try to get some sleep. You think you and Ginny will be up for some Quidditch tomorrow?”

Harry blinked at the change of subject, then shrugged. “Yeah, we’re looking forward to it. But do you think you’ll tell the rest of your family about the.....tonight?”

“If I thought I could get away with it, I wouldn't bring it up. But they should know, just in case--and like Hermione, Mum would murder me as soon as she found out and I hadn't been the one to tell her.”

“Can't really blame her though, can you? Ron, do you want me to stop at yours and make sure you get in alright? I know we cleared the flat, and no one had been in, but.....”

“Thanks, but no. If he was going to do anything, it would've been while my guard was still down. He has to know that we’d have Aurors going over it with a fine tooth comb, and he probably even expects a watch for the next few days. Besides, the fun ends once he makes a move--It seems like the kind of person that likes to watch you sweat.”

“I can't argue with any of that, even if I don't like it. You’ll get ahold of me if anything happens?”

“I sent my Patronus to you first thing, didn't I?” Ron tried to reassure him. “I'm not going to be stupidly brave, Harry. That’s your department.”

Harry had to laugh at that. “Alright, I won't mother you. Just as long as you remember, if you go off half-cocked, we go together.”

“Naturally. I wouldn't break a lifetime of habit, now would I?” 

Once it seemed like Harry believed Ron wouldn't be taking any risks, Ron Apparated to his flat. Even though his Wards were still up, and seemingly hadn't been triggered, he went over the whole place again anyway. He hadn't lied to Harry when he said he didn't think anything was likely to happen tonight, but that didn't mean he was going to be stupid about it. Until this bugger was caught, he was going to be doing these checks every time he came home. 

Confident that everything was as it should be, he got ready for bed, feeling heavy as he slid in under the covers. The adrenaline was leaving his system, and he could barely hold his eyes open. Even before all the excitement this evening, the day had taken a lot of energy, and he was glad he’d be able to sleep in a bit before he had to get through another day. Tucking his wand under his pillow, he stretched out, his yawn loud in the empty room. Tomorrow he’d have to deal with telling his family about the letter, and wracking his brains to figure out who was behind it. But for now, he let his mind wander back over the earlier parts of the day; flying, spending some time with his dad, and his date. Reality blurred around him, and it wasn't long until he was snogging Hermione as they drifted through the sky on a sleek new broom, far away from any cares in the world.

 

 

Hermione looked like she could use a good fly (or snog) the next day when he told her about the letter, her face going curiously blank as her eyes darted between him and Harry.

“But I'm sure there’s nothing to worry about,” he finished, trying to sound as if everything were under control. “These things happen all the time, and nine times out of ten, never gets beyond this point.”

“Are you saying,” Hermione spoke in a strained voice, “That you've been threatened before?”

He and Harry shared a guilty look, Harry going a bit pale as Ginny, who had insinuated herself into the group, narrowed her eyes at him. 

“Um, well, not quite like this. Usually in the heat of an arrest, you know, which......is sort of to be expected.”

“Do they usually leave letters in the heat of an arrest? Because I suspect they don't,” Hermione shot back, her hip sliding into that dangerous angle that foretold long arguments ahead.

“Well. No. But Hermione, I really don't think it’s going to turn out to be anything--it’s just someone trying to mess with my head. Once we figure out who it is, threatening them with arrest will probably be enough to scare them off.”

“And if it’s not? Are you at least taking any kind of precaution?”

Ron sighed, knowing she was just worried, but wishing she would ease up a bit. “Hermione, I'm being careful. I swear. I have Wards up that I'm constantly checking, and I'm going to be on my guard when I’m out in public. If I wasn't taking this seriously, I wouldn't have told you, would I?” He asked, firmly ignoring Harry’s expression.

“I suppose not,” Hermione relented, biting her lip. “It’s just.....thinking about what could happen makes me sick. But at least he should be fairly easy to find, since you have one obvious suspect.”

He puzzled over her words, trying to think of someone he had missed. “We do?”

She gave him the same look she used to when he used the wrong word in a Charm. “Of course! Pethwick! I'm sure he blames you for his suspension, and would be looking for a chance to get even.”

Ron twisted his neck to look at Harry, whose jaw had dropped. “Do you think the little wank stain would go that far?”

Harry didn't even take a full minute to think about it. “I do, yeah. So far there hasn't been much effort put in, which would suit him right down to his shoes. If he could get under your skin with just a letter, and maybe a few more, in time.....he’d do it.”

“And Selby even said he had suspicions, so that's probably who he meant. Fuck! Maybe we should pay him a little visit, see if he’ll squeal if he realizes we’re on to him,” Ron said, narrowing his eyes.

“No!” Ginny and Hermione both yelped.

Ginny smacked his arm for emphasis. “Don't be stupid! If you two go, he’ll just say you planted evidence or forced a confession, and given your history, some people would believe him.”

Ron hated it when his sister was right, but he had to agree. “Fair enough point. But tomorrow, I'm definitely going to make sure that Selby has someone looking into it.” He smiled at Hermione. “And at least we know I’m right, and it wasn't anything to worry about.”

“Not so fast!” Hermione held up a hand. “You don't know that! If he’s pushed far enough, he might do something rash--don't underestimate him. And even though I admit he's the most likely suspect at this point, it’s not for sure; until you can conclusively rule anyone else out, you should still take precautions.” 

“Oh, I will,” Ron laughed darkly. “Even if for no other reason than to make sure that pathetic git doesn't put one over on me. More to the point, and the reason I even brought all this up......you need to take care, too. He might try to get to me through someone I care about, and you're damn high on that list.”

Hermione blushed slightly at that admission, but waved away his concern. “He probably doesn't even know about me! And even if he does, I have plenty of experience watching my back. You'd be surprised how many letters I get when my department looks like it’s making any kind of progress.”

“Hermione,” Ron said, his voice falsely calm, “Are you saying that _you've_ had threats?”

Realizing her mistake, she quickly tried to downplay it. “Nothing recently. And never anything really serious; just a lot of hot air from people who can't accept change.”

“Did you at least report them?” Harry asked, frowning at her.

“Well.....no. Like I said, they weren't that serious, and you have to expect things like that when--”

“You have to expect things like that as an Auror, but but that's not the tune you were singing a few minutes ago,” Ron said, his scowl deepening. 

“That's not the same!” She protested, ignoring Ginny shaking her head as if to tell her she was only digging herself in deeper. “Yours was much more serious, and directed to your home! Mine were.....they weren't really personal; they were just hoping to scare me enough to prevent any new laws going through.”

“And what if they attack someone else, if they think it’s not working on you? What if they _do_ attack you, and their defence tries to use something like temporary insanity to get them a reduced sentence? Bloody fucking _hell,_ Hermione, even if nine out of ten don't do anything, there’s always that tenth one!”

“Ron, we’re getting off track--this is about you right now, not me,” Hermione insisted, even as she mentally admitted he had a good point.

Ron ran both hands through his hair, making it stick up in odd angles that would have his mum making repeated offers to cut. His face was flushed, and his mouth worked as he searched for the right words to hurl back at her. “That’s the bloody point, Hermione! If someone actually is out to get me, and tries to go through you to do it....even if you won't take it seriously for yourself, do you have any idea what it’d do to me?”

“That’s low of you to use that,” Hermione grumbled.

“Normally I'd agree with you--if it was about anything else, I wouldn't do it, but if it gets you to take care of yourself, I'm willing to go lower. Of course, I could always come and camp out on your sofa, if you won't handle it yourself.”

 

They stood there glaring at each other, jaws slid out stubbornly.

 

“Shades of Hogwarts,” Ginny whispered to Harry, who gave a tired nod.

“What? Do the two of you think I'm being unreasonable?” Hermione snapped.

Harry stared at the sky, as if someone might fly over with an answer written on a banner. Ginny, naturally, was more direct.

“Honestly, Hermione? Yeah. You know I'm always happy to point out when one of my brothers is wrong, and I loathe when anyone pulls that overprotective crap, so I'd be on your side if that was what was happening,” Ginny said. “But Ron knows that you can take care of yourself, and he’s only going to step in if you're too stubborn to do it. You'd be much better off if you just made sure to take a bit of care, otherwise he’ll do something stupidly noble, like break up with you until the threat is over.”

Harry winced. “I said I was sorry for that,” he mumbled under his breath.

Hermione jerked her head back, blinking at the possibility Ginny brought up. “Ron, you wouldn't.....”

He gave an almost guilty shrug, uncomfortable at the glint of worry in her eyes. “I wouldn't want to. It would be the last resort, and not permanent, but......Hermione, things like this are going to come up, and I need you to be safe. And I know that for the most part, unless things escalate a lot more than this, you can handle it fine without help. But if you won't.....what am I supposed to do?” He asked, feeling helpless.

“You're right,” Hermione said, looking resigned.

Ron felt his stomach lurch, and unconsciously took a small step forward, feeling sick. He didn't want to take a break! Not now that things were finally back together! 

“All of you are. It’s perfectly logical to come to the conclusion that I would be a possible target, in this case, even if the intent isn't any more serious than trying to put a scare into you. Until whoever it is is caught, it’s reasonable for me to pay attention to my surroundings and make sure my flat is properly warded.”

Air returned to his lungs. “So.....that means you'll be on guard, and mention it if anything suspicious happens?” He asked.

She nodded briskly, then gave him a piercing look. “I'll be careful, as long as you promise to be, too.”

“I promise! Like I said, if I wasn't going to be careful, I wouldn't have bothered to tell anyone,” he said, relieved that he had been mistaken.

“Wondering what’s going on that you don't mention isn't exactly comforting,” Hermione huffed, but without too much heat.

“Well, since this doesn't look like it’s going to become a fight of epic proportions, I'm going inside to help Mum with the gravy--I can never get mine to turn out exactly like hers, and I'm determined to get the secret out of her. Harry, come with me and charm her,” Ginny tugged at Harry’s arm, seeming to sense that her brother might like some privacy.

“Of all the ways you could use my boyish good looks,” Harry sighed, allowing himself to be dragged along, but not before shooting Ron and Hermione a quick, knowing look that said he would be holding both of them to their promises to be careful.

“Ron?” 

He gave a start, turning from watching Harry and Ginny disappearing into the Burrow. “Yeah?”

“I just wanted to say I'm sorry. For being difficult about all this, I mean,” she said, giving him a wan smile.

It was unusual for Hermione to back down so quickly, without even her standard mutters and cross looks; Ron was surprised, but hoped it meant that she really understood.

“You weren't being....look, I know you hate being told what to do, and I don't blame you for that--and I swear, this isn't about....control, or anything like that,” he began.

She gave a small laugh. “Oh, you're right about that, but I know that wasn't how you meant it.” Her laugh faded, and she became serious, rubbing at her arms until it looked like she was hugging herself without realizing it. “And to be honest, it wasn't even about that. It’s.....Oh, Merlin, I don't know how to explain it--it’s just, ever since the war ended, it feels like all of that should be over, you know? We’ve hit our limit. Bad things like that--they just shouldn't happen again,” she gave a small laugh that sounded more like a sob. “We should be able to go about our lives without some horrible person ruining everything. If we just--just push it away and act normal.....”

With an odd burst of clarity, Ron recognized what Hermione was struggling with. He’d confused things, mistakenly assuming that it was Hermione’s characteristic stubbornness, the way she automatically balked at the possibility that someone was making a decision for her. Which had why he’d tried to be careful not to make it sound like an order, or that he was just going to sweep in and take care of things his way without letting her have a chance. But this......this was a different need for control. After the war, he’d had a hard time with coming to terms with the fact that the danger he’d been living with for years was.....over. Within a day, everything had changed, and instead of just being relieved and getting on with his life, he’d been haunted by nightmares and the fear that something else would take its place. To prevent that, he had sort of built a wall around himself, and had danced over the line from caution into paranoia more than he should have. 

He had supposed that if Hermione was going to have problems, she would be pretty much the same way; uptight, fretting over details, obsessively on guard. But she had gone a different direction with her need for control. Hermione just plain refused to accept that anything bad would happen--she wouldn't allow it to be a possibility, as if, through sheer willpower alone, she could prevent it from happening. And given what he knew of Hermione’s willpower, he suspected most minor things would bend out of her path, but that was no good for something like this. Pushing aside a guilty sort of relief that he wasn't the only one that had come through the war with issues, he stepped over to her and pulled her close, feeling her arms go around his waist.

“S’okay. I get it, I do. But this isn't going to be anything like it was back then, you know? There’s a good chance that the letter was the end of it. Until we know for sure, we’ll just be careful, and watch each other’s backs, just like always, right?”

Hermione pulled away, her hands sliding around the the front to hold onto the edges of his jacket as she smiled up at him. “You're absolutely right. We’ve been through worse, and we’ll get through this. I guess I was just getting panicky from the shock, but I'll be fine now,” she assured him, sounding more like herself.

“You don't have to be fine all the time, Hermione. You can be as upset about it as you want, as long as it doesn't keep you from protecting yourself.”

“It won't,” Hermione promised. “And besides, I'm more worried about you, anyway--I said I promise! But this is about you; you're going to be the main target. I'm just a means to that end, if anything. Another thing, I don't want you going after Pethwick yourself, either. It might not be him, but if it is--”

“I could compromise the investigation by making it seem like I was instigating something,” Ron cut in. “Don't worry, I remember. But we’ve both promised we’ll be careful, so let’s try not to overthink it--especially on a Sunday, when we should be focusing on Mum’s dinner and Quidditch.”

“I suppose that would be best, since there’s nothing else we can do about it,” Hermione agreed as they slowly walked towards the Burrow, an arm around each other. Suddenly she stopped, her hand gripping the back of his jacket to hold him back. “But you will tell me if you learn anything more?”

He looked down at her face, a small wrinkle of worry between her eyes. He knew one of the hardest parts of a bad situation for Hermione was not knowing something. “If anything happens that I can tell you without compromising the investigation, you'll be the first to know,” he promised. “Unless Harry or Mum get to me before I can, because I'm weak.”

Hermione laughed at that, her face clearing as they continued on. “I appreciate that. Now that that’s settled, we can just enjoy the rest of the day.”

“Hardly,” Ron said dryly. “We still have to break it to Mum.”

 

 

........ “so just to be on the safe side, all of you should be careful for awhile,” Ron finished. He had waited for everyone to arrive so he only had to say it once, and had timed it while they were diving into the food, giving him the small break of silence he needed to bring it up.

 

“Let me know if you want to try out any of my......special tricks at your flat, Ron. I've been working on a few new ones that’d give the bugger a surprise,” George offered, giving him a wicked smirk.

“Well, I think you should move back into your old room until all this is cleared up,” his Mum said, fretfully passing around the bread basket, even though no one had finished their first roll yet.

“If things look like they might get more serious, I will,” Ron said, drawing on every ounce of the diplomacy course he had taken. 

He loved his parents, and visiting his them, but he had absolutely no intention of giving up his privacy and independence--especially not now that things were working out with Hermione. It looked like his dad knew it, too, given the twinkle in his eye and the way he hid his mouth behind his glass. 

“I certainly hope the department is taking this seriously,” his Mum said, in a tone that implied that she was quite prepared to march into the offices and let them know exactly how seriously they should be taking it.

“Oh, they are!” Harry said, after quickly swallowing a mouthful of potato. “Threats to Aurors are taken especially serious right now, since our numbers still aren't as high as they should be, and Selby himself is staying right on top of it.”

“Well, I should hope so. It’s easier to keep good wards up here, and I could make sure you were eating properly for at least a few months,” his Mum said, looking like she was already mentally giving his room an airing.

A few months? Merlin! He was hoping this would blow over in a week or two--obviously she needed to have Victoire over more, if she had time enough on her hands to want to babysit him!

“Oh, Mum, did we tell you? We saw the Healer yesterday about the baby,” Bill said, neatly distracting their mother, although Fleur shot him a look that said she wasn't pleased to be thrust into the spotlight of maternal concern.

Ron leaned back in his chair, trying to blend in; about the only time he could was with a tableful of other gingers. He was thankful to Bill for the distraction, since all this talk about his.....well, stalker was an overstatement.....whatever it was, it was wearing him out more than actually getting the letter had. He appreciated everyone’s concern, but it was a little intense and hard to deal with coming from multiple directions. Under the table, without drawing attention to it, he felt Hermione squeeze his leg, and he remembered to breathe. It was alright. They just had to get over the surprise, like she had, and things would be calmer--more so as time passed without anything else happening. All he had to do today was eat, play some Quidditch, and enjoy some time with his family and Hermione.

 

 

Sitting on a blanket charmed to stay warm, Hermione watched the figures flitting through the air on brooms, a Quaffle being hurled amongst them. Hermione smiled, giving a cheer as Ron successfully blocked the Ring. He grinned back and gave her a wave, but his attention was quickly pulled back to the game--just as she preferred it, while he was flying around with something that could knock him off his broom. A shadow loomed over her, and she looked up just as Mr. Weasley sat down next to her, able to fold his long legs surprisingly well. 

“It’s good to watch, isn't it?” he asked, with a kind smile.

“It is. When we were younger, I remember being frustrated how many hours he would devote to it when there were more serious things to worry about, but when he did give it up......it just felt wrong.”

“I know what you mean. After her brothers died, it was months before Molly set foot into a kitchen--the heart had gone right out of her.”

“Really?” Hermione asked, glancing at him in shock. “That’s hard to imagine. As long as I've known her, it’s always felt like even when the world was falling apart, she’d have something comforting cooking on the stove.”

Arthur nodded. “Oh, yes. She’s always loved cooking, you know, and once she started it back up again, she found it helped her to cope. It still does.”

“I hope this helps Ron. He’s always working, or helping someone else, it’s good to see him doing something just because he enjoys it. Not that he doesn't love helping around here!” Hermione rushed to add, afraid she had said something hurtful. “I mean--”

Arthur waved her comment away. “Of course. Even when he was in his grumbling teenager phase, Ron could be counted on to help if someone truly needed it--degnoming the garden and things of that ilk not falling under that heading, mind you!” He laughed. “But his mother and I are thrilled to see him taking an interest in life again-- _his_ life.”

Loud calls came from overhead as the players hurled good natured insults and jibes at each other, the air turning faintly blue with some of the language used. Automatically, Hermione and Arthur turned their heads in Molly’s direction. She tilted her head back, scowling, but it soon faded into an indulgent smile at the sound of Ron’s laughter, and she gave a rueful shake of the head before turning to say something to Fleur.

“I've never been able to break it to her that they learned some of their more colorful language from her,” Arthur whispered in a confidential tone, which had Hermione giggling. “She would just deny it, of course, since she never even realizes when something slips out when she’s very stressed.”

“Good to know that he came by it naturally,” Hermione said, any attempt at trying to curb Ron’s swearing had long ago become little more than habit.

They sat in silence, watching as the game paused for the inevitable, ‘that didn't count!’ ‘it did so, count!’ argument that always broke out during these matches.

“You're worried, aren't you? About that letter,” Arthur asked her, glancing at her out of the corner of his eye. 

“Of course! I know Ron is taking it very well, and I'm glad he isn't panicking or obsessing over it--at least not yet--but I can't keep my mind running down all of the horrible directions this could go,” she said honestly. 

Arthur nodded. “After all of the things you three went through, that’s understandable. And in his line of work, things like that do happen. But I also want you to consider something that I've found from long experience.”

“What’s that?” Hermione asked, curious as to what he could mean.

“Co-workers can be surprisingly, unrelentingly, petty. You wouldn't believe some of the things some people will take a slight over, and will try to find some way to even the score--ways that rarely extend to the illegal, much less life threatening.”

“So you really think that's a possibility?” Hermione asked, wanting to believe in the least dangerous option. 

“I believe that it’s more likely than you might think. You'd be surprised by how many people receive similar notes when they've passed over someone for promotion, or were shown some trivial favor. Whoever is doing this isn't very bright, tipping their hand like that.”

“From the way Harry and Ron describe who they suspect, he’s just arrogant enough to think that won't matter,” Hermione said. “Has anything like this ever happened to you?”

Arthur nodded, a wry smile curling the corner of his mouth. “I've had my share of nasty notes. And to be honest, I'd rather have those than some of the other, more inventive forms of ‘being put in my place.’”

Hermione thought about that. She knew he wasn't in one of the most desirable departments, and had probably been a good target for malicious pranks. And if anyone had ever thought he was getting more attention or credit than he deserved.....

“What did you do about it?” 

“There’s not a lot you can do, if they cover their tracks well. Any complaint you might make usually ends up making you look bad, and not them. Sometimes, you just have to knuckle under and be the better person,” he sighed, before adding in an overly innocent voice, “unless, of course, you're able to run into them in an empty alley and quietly, but firmly kick their arse.”

Hermione was still staring at him, mouth hanging open, when he patted her shoulder and pushed himself to his feet. “Now, I’ll let you get back to watching Ron; I just wanted to stop by and make sure you weren't going to worry yourself sick over something that's very likely not to be dangerous at all.”

She smiled up at him, pushing away some hair that the wind had blown into her face. “I'll try not to. You're right; most of the time, when someone has a problem with you, it isn't a life or death situation. If it is the one we think, he’s too lazy to put much effort into this beyond a few letters.”

“Good, good. Just be on the alert, to be on the safe side, but don't let it eat at you. And now I think I’ll go over and try to sweet talk my dear wife, in hopes that I can convince her not to send Ron off with all of the leftover cake.”

Laughing, she watched him go, thankful that he had taken the time to try to put her mind at ease; it was the kind of thing her father would do, and she loved him for the paternal gesture. Some might think it at odds with his earlier admission to having thrashed a co worker (something that would have been more shocking had she not seen him tear into Lucius Malfoy). She looked back up at Ron, thinking that although many comparisons might be made between him and his mum, he shared quite a lot of characteristics with his dad.

Which she didn't think was a bad thing at all.

 

 

Ron stretched out, taking up more than what would be considered his fair share of the blanket, his head resting in Hermione’s lap. Harry was across from them, sprawled on his stomach, with Ginny draped sideways over his back, all three tired from their game. The rest had either gone home or inside, but it had been awhile since the four of them had spent much time together, so by unspoken agreement, none made a move to leave.

“How long do you think George’ll milk that dragon egg on his head for Angelina?” Ginny asked drowsily.

“Probably not very long. She was humoring him, but a quick Healing Charm would set him to rights,” Harry said.

“And George will find a way to push it too far; he can't be smart and just silently give her puppy eyes,” Ron added, his eyes flickering open and shut as Hermione ran her fingers through his hair, her nails lightly scratching his scalp.

“Oh, is that the trick? I'll be sure to watch for it,” Hermione said, her voice laced with amusement.

Ron turned his head to blink up at her innocently. “Hermione, I'd _never!”_

She rolled her eyes. “You're a liar and a fake, Ron Weasley; but not about anything that matters, so I suppose I'll keep you anyway.”

With a satisfied smile as she continued to stroke his hair, he nestled back into place.

“A liar is right,” Ginny said, glaring at him. “He stole that point--he knew I scored!”

Harry groaned from beneath her. “Merlin, Gin, let it drop! The two of you already argued for ten minutes, and that was what we all agreed on in the end.”

“You wouldn't be so forgiving, if you hadn't been a traitor and joined the wrong team,” Ginny accused him, poking him in the ribs.

“What do you mean, joined the wrong team? We had to be even, and you and I play more than the others, so it was only fair!” Harry protested, limply swinging his hand to try to bat hers away.

Ginny sniffed. “You're my boyfriend! You're supposed to do that ‘me and thee against the world, darling,’ bit. You've betrayed me and our love.”

“Ron?” Harry sighed. “Next time, I'm on Ginny’s team, alright? Because it’s me and her against the world, and I can't betray her and our love.”

Ron snorted. “Better with her than against her.”

“So, aside from from stealing points, did you have a good time today?” Ginny asked Ron. shifting a little on Harry and causing him to grunt.

“I think it mightve been more fun if you hadn't been chucking that Quaffle like you meant to take someone’s head off, but yeah, I did. Should try it again next week, if you're up for it.”

“Don't be weak, that's as hard as I've always thrown it! You've just gotten soft. Give me a few weeks, and I’ll have you Quidditch fit again.”

“You sound like Oliver Wood. If I find you hovering over me at four in the morning to do drills, I’ll have you tested for Polyjuice.”

The four of them talked lazily, jumping from subject to subject. As time passed, Ron sat up, feeling a bit antsy and restless. After the second time he asked someone to repeat themselves, Hermione reached out to touch his arm.

“Ron? Are you feeling alright? You've done quite a bit the last two days.”

He shrugged. “I dunno. I'm....mostly fine? I just feel sort of off. Tired, and like I might snap someone’s head off without meaning to. It’s a little hard to focus. But I can tell that I’m feeling that way, and usually, I can't.”

“You did push yourself pretty hard for a first time,” Harry pointed out.

“And the dealing with all of that about the letter added more than you were counting on,” Ginny said, giving him a sympathetic look.

Hermione lifted her wrist, checking her watch. “It’s starting to get late, too. Remember, you said you were going to rest at home this evening; it’s probably about time.”

It was on the tip of his tongue to say that if he needed someone to tell him it was time to go night-night, his mum was inside, but he caught himself just in time.

“I think you might be right,” he said instead, standing and helping her to her feet. “Thanks for the workout today,” he looked down at Harry and Ginny. “It reminded me of being on the team again, without the nervous puking.”

“Don't relax too much; I'll push you harder next week,” Ginny grinned.

“Glad you had a good time. I’ll come in a bit early in the morning, and we can have a talk with Selby, alright?” Harry asked, pushing up his glasses.

“Yeah. Just wait for me in the hall--I have an appointment with Hitchens, but I shouldn't be too long.”

“Don't forget to see Mum before you go! She’ll be disappointed if she can't load you with leftovers.”

Ron nodded, and he and Hermione walked slowly back to the Burrow. 

“Don't suppose I can talk you into coming over for awhile?” He asked, holding her hand as they walked.

“I don't think so,” Hermione sighed, looking as if she regretted the fact. “You seem very tired, and you mentioned feeling like you were going to be short with people. I don't think an evening worrying whether or not you're going to say the wrong thing would be very relaxing for you, and you have work tomorrow.”

“I was hoping I'd be able to do better than this,” he said, scowling down at his feet.

“Ron, you're doing much better than you have been! You've handled this weekend wonderfully, even with the unexpected stress of the letter. Besides, I'm sure it’ll work better once you start using the new things you'll be learning in therapy.”

He expelled a deep breath, trying to rid himself of the gloomy feeling that lurked around the edges. “I know. And I knew it wasn't going to be something that went away when I started the potion. I _knew_ it, but......”

“You couldn't help hoping, at least a little?” She asked, flashing him an understanding smile. 

“Yeah. Stupid, but I can't help it. At least I have an appointment tomorrow. I really appreciate him wanting to start slow and build up, but I think I'm going to ask him to show me at least one thing to help. Someone’s out to at least provoke me, and I can't risk my temper flaring up more than what I can control.”

“That would be good. What will you do if he suggests taking some time off, though? He might think it’s a good idea until this clears up, since it’s one thing more on top of your workload.”

Ron shook his head. “Nah. I'm not giving Pethwick--or whoever it is--the satisfaction. I think I'd be more stressed out if I did, to be honest. I might take some time off afterwards, though.”

“Really?” Hermione asked, the shock halting her footsteps.

“You sound like I just said I wanted to be re-sorted into Slytherin. Seriously, though, I've thought about it a little, and a couple of weeks off this summer might do me some good. Spend some time relaxing, not doing things for other people--maybe we can go somewhere, too.”

Hermione blushed a bit in pleasure at the implied invitation, but still brought up, practically, “Are you sure you'd be able to get away? From your session, I mean.”

“I don't need to ask permission,” he said, his voice coming out more tightly than he had intended.

“I didn't think you did, I just--”

“I know. Sorry ‘bout that; didn't mean to sound mad. I just meant that I'm sure I could be away for awhile at that point without it being a problem, especially if I focus on what he tells me to do now.” He rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb in apologetic circles.

“True. Even if you maintain how you're doing now, a few days somewhere shouldn't hurt--especially since I'm sure we’ll both want someplace with a little peace and quiet.”

Distractedly, Ron realized that although Hermione probably _would_ want somewhere like that if she took time off, she had most likely said it like that so he wouldn't feel bad about not wanting to do something more exciting. He was having problems finding the right words to express himself, so he let go of her hand and pulled her into a clumsy one armed hug; he thought she’d gotten some of his meaning, since the arm she had put around his waist squeezed him to her, before they started walking again.

 

 

Gasping lungfuls of air, Ron shot into a sitting position, clawing his way out of the sweaty sheets that clung to his body. He was shaking, and it wasn't until a sob worked its way out of his throat that he realized that sweat wasn't the only thing running down his face. His stomach twisted, and he barely made it into the bathroom in time to hang his head over the toilet. After a messy few minutes, he flushed and slumped over, letting his head rest on the cold tiles, not sure if there would be another round. 

Bloody hell, he hadn't had a dream this intense in weeks! He wished he could remember it, because the ones where he woke up like this, with no idea what they had been about, were the worst. His mind kept darting around, struggling to sort dream from reality. Was someone dead? Fred. Anyone else? His family? Hermione? Harry? No. Maybe. Yes......no. Not dead. Or just not dead yet. Someone was after them......or him? 

He sat up, head spinning, and leaned over to turn on the tap of the tub. He let it run a few minutes as he worked up the energy to stand and strip, then stepped into the freezing cold stream of water, letting the icy pinpricks pelt against his skin until his head cleared. Teeth chattering, he shut off the water, the pipes screeching in protest. He stepped out and grabbed a towel instead of using a Drying Charm, rubbing his body until the skin was patchy and pink, feeling raw and burnt. He brushed his teeth to get the disgusting taste out of his mouth, and made his way back to his room, feeling a bit better, although queasiness lurked at the edges. He wouldn't be sleeping again, so he went ahead and dressed for work, carrying his boots into the living room, where he slumped down into his chair. 

The nightmare had caught him off guard. After saying goodbye to Hermione, and letting his mum load him down with leftovers, he had returned home, changed into a pair of pajama bottoms, made himself a stack of sandwiches, and set himself up in bed with several of his Quidditch Monthly Magazines. He’d spent the rest of the evening reading and munching, and, since he felt more relaxed than he had earlier, he had finally turned over in bed, thinking he’d get a good night’s sleep and feel as good as he had Saturday when he woke up the next morning. 

He still couldn't remember what the dream had been about; the only thing that came to him was a hazy feeling of hands pulling him into the ground. He shuddered, wondering if maybe he was more worried about this letter business than he had thought. But no, that couldn't be it, could it? He really did think it was Pethwick, and he’d be damned it the little bastard gave him nightmares. 

The hours crept by slowly, until it was finally late enough that he could reasonably show up for his appointment. He put on his boots, took his dose of potion, and, since it was supposed to be taken with food, unenthusiastically choked down a couple of slices of bread and jam. 

 

 

The receptionist smiled in recognition as he came in, nodding towards the office to indicate that once again, he should go straight in. Ron expected to have to wait at least a few minutes, but Hitchens was already there, his eyes ringed and bloodshot, with the largest coffee cup Ron had ever seen on the desk.

“I didn't know they had that size!” He blurted, walking in.

Hitchens gave him a tired smile. “I think they started stocking them just for me. I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me if I don't seem all together today; I had a late night emergency that lasted until....just about an hour ago, I think, so I didn't get much sleep.”

“That'll make two of us then,” Ron sighed, sitting down. “Is today a bad day? We could reschedule.....” he offered, although he really didn't want to.

“No, no, I'm fine; just moving a little slow. Now, why don't you fill me in on how your weekend went? Judging by the bags under your eyes, I'm afraid it didn't go as well as hoped.”

“Yeah. Well, no, not really. Most of it was great, actually--last night just......maybe I should start from the beginning.”

Ron recounted the past couple of days, pausing every so often to choose his words to try to match how he felt, something that he was finding difficult since he’d always been the sort to blurt things out and regret them later. He also, at first, kept a close eye on Hitchens to see if he was going to fall asleep, but although the other man looked like he could use a twelve hour nap, his eyes never wavered, and the small frowns and smiles that flitted across his face showed he was paying attention.

“Sounds like you've had an eventful weekend,” he said when Ron had finished, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s start with the positives. I would say that reconnecting with your love of flying and Quidditch is off to a successful start. Do you plan on keeping up with it?”

Ron had been thinking of that. “I think so. I'm not going to join the department team until at least this fall, though. Right now, I'm not sure I'm steady enough for a team to depend on, and I think the pressure would just outweigh the whole point. I’ll still play casually with my family, or if anyone wants to practice or something.”

Hitchens nodded. “That’s probably a good choice; it’s better to recognize your limits and build up to them, rather than rush in and make something that should be calming and enjoyable into another source of anxiety. Just try to keep fitting it in when you can.”

Ron agreed, feeling pleased that his own assessment was met with approval--and realized that even though he had known that was the point, it had still worked. It had been a very simple step, but the combination of finishing a set task, and making his own decisions based on it, gave him a measure of confidence to take the next one. 

“And your date, and spending some time with family--you noticed some improvement in those areas?”

“Yeah. I could focus on what people were actually saying, without reading something into it. I felt like I was there with them, not far away or.....just to the side, but on some other level. It was like things with her were falling back into the way they should've been before we got off track.”

“I'm happy to hear it; not everyone is able to regain that connection, after such a strain so early on. Now, onto the more negative aspects of the weekend. You mentioned that the effect of the potion seemed to weaken, the more you pushed yourself?”

Ron held out his hand, tilting it from side to side. “A little, maybe. I mean, I definitely noticed I was less anxious, especially when I was out around a lot of people. And I didn't really feel angry for no real reason, except a little irritable yesterday at the end. It just....I could feel it in the background, like something tapping on a window. I know it’s there ready to get in.”

“Was there anything specific?”

Starting to say no, he recalled a particular moment and changed his answer. “Well, while I was out with Hermione, for just a few seconds I felt like everyone was watching me, thinking bad things about me, stuff like that. But before I could get too worked up, my brain clicked over and I realized that people saw me, but they weren't looking at me. I was just the bloke ahead of them in line, or catching me as movement in the corner of their eye and forgetting about me again.”

“Hm. I thought that might happen, but maybe in a month or so. Let me try something....”

Ron waited while Hitchens went behind the screen, listening to drawers being yanked open and slammed shut, colorful mumbles followed by a pleased exclamation. A minute more of rustling, and Hitchens rejoined him.

“When you get home, drop this in your potion--that should help,” he said, holding up a small, reddish lump before tucking it into a small box and handing it to Ron.

He slid it into his pocket, surprised. It looked like a pill--not the Muggle ones he’d seen Hermione use, but they kind they used here when ingredients worked better if they weren't in a liquid form. Or, in this case, to add to a potion later to adjust it. 

“And what about this letter? I know you've been trained for the possibility of something like this, but it can be a nasty shock. How are you holding up?”

At this, Ron shrugged. “I know I should probably be more worried than I am--I even wondered for a little bit this morning if it was affecting me more than I thought--but I really think it’s just that wanker Pethwick, and it'll all blow over in a few weeks at the most.”

“Possible--and sad to say, not the first time something like this has happened, to be honest. But you mentioned a return of nightmares last night.....are you sure that couldn't be the cause, even if rationally you don't think you have anything to worry about?”

Impatiently, Ron shook his head. “Nah. Thought about it all morning, and that doesn't feel right. I can't fully remember the details, but I have dreams like this a lot--I just hadn't had one for longer than usual.”

“And you don't think that this new threat could have brought it on, in any way?” Hitchens asked, looking unconvinced.

“Not really, no. And even if it did, it’s just bringing up an old problem that won't go away even when we figure out who’s behind this, so it doesn't really matter too much. I know I need to be careful, but other things are on my mind and more important to take care of first, at least to me.”

Hitchens cocked his head, regarding him thoughtfully. “You sound frustrated. Is there something on your mind?”

That was the opening Ron had been looking for; he hesitated, feeling nervous about what he was going to say.

“Uh, yeah, there sort of is. I just.....well, I understand why you started me off with Quidditch, and I think it was a good idea and it’s going to help, but....” he trailed off, unsure how to finish.

“Ron,” Hitchens said with a small smile, “You sound like you're trying not to offend me, but that really isn't necessary. This is all about _you._ If something isn't working, then you need to tell me.”

Ron gave him a grateful look, and stopped biting down on the inside of his cheek. “Right. I just....didn't want you to think I didn't appreciate the other, or that I was complaining....”

“I didn't think either of those things. I can just tell that there’s something else that’s bothering you, and I'd like to help,” Hitchens assured him.

“It’s the nightmares,” Ron said, blurting it out while he could. “The potion has been helping, at least as far as stopping them most of the time. It’s just once I _do_ have one, it’s too late, and it takes me way too long to recover.

“Are you ready to talk about the things we had discussed before, then?”

Ron guiltily dropped his eyes, pinching and smoothing the material of his cuff. “Ah, no, not yet. I had planned to ask Harry and Hermione if they were alright with me.....talking about all that, but with the letter and everything, I forgot.”

Hitchens took a long drink of his coffee, setting it down on a coaster before folding his hands and looking at Ron. 

“You've had a lot on your mind, so I could see how that could happen. But Ron.......I can only help you with as much as you give me. I have a few clues so far, I could even make what I believe to be an accurate guess about your problem, but at this point I can't be sure--your symptoms are shared with several other things, or could even be multiple conditions together. If I start trying to treat you for something specific, and it doesn't work, I'm afraid you'll get frustrated and quit altogether, and just convince yourself that you can't be helped. You know how cases work; there’s always that one vital piece that makes things click into place, and you can't solve it without that, even when you're fairly sure what the final answer will be.”

The frustrating thing was, Ron did know that. Put into those terms, he knew he probably seemed like one of those witnesses that was reluctant to give up information for one reason or another--more than once, he’d seen someone get away with a crime because a witness wouldn't tell what they knew. 

“I know. And I'm going to ask them this week, I promise--I was just hoping that there was something I could do to....I don't know. I hate how I am after those.”

“Could you describe that for me?” Hitchens asked, thankfully dropping the other subject.

“Yeah. Sort of. I....when I wake up, it’s not always the same--sometimes it’s like I'm right back in the middle of something that’s happened before, but other times, everything is all mixed up between the past, or bits of the dream that didn't _really_ happen, but _could_ have. I'm all in a panic, and it’s hard to sort out, and I’m sick and dizzy.”

“How long does that usually last?” Hitchens asked with a frown.

Ron jerked his shoulders in a shrug. “Never timed it. ‘Bout an hour or so? On really bad days it sort of sticks with me, and I keep having to force myself to remember it was a dream. Nothing around me feels really.....solid, I guess.”

Hitchens considered that, then nodded. “I think there’s a technique that could help with that, although I warn you, it takes practice, and might seem rather odd at first.”

“That’s fine! At this point I'm pretty much open to anything.”

Alright, then--”

There was a knock on the door, and then the receptionist stuck her head in.

“Sir? I'm sorry to bother you, but there’s been another emergency.”

Hitchens looked startled. “Really? I thought they were doing better when I left--”

“No, sir, it’s a different patient,” The receptionist explained.

“Thank you, Janice. I'll be out in a moment,” he sighed. Standing, he turned his attention back to Ron. “I'm so sorry for this! I was hoping to--wait a minute....”

Ron watched as he walked over to a set of shelves, and began searching for something, pulling things out before putting them back. Finally, he seemed satisfied, coming back with two thin volumes that looked like little more than pamphlets. 

“Here. The red one should help, and I’d like you to at least read through the other one as well. I had hoped to walk you through the steps a few times, but it’s pretty self explanatory, and I'm sure you don't want to wait for the next appointment. I can see you again Thursday, if that's alright?”

Ron was mildly disappointed, but it wasn't like he was the only patient Hitchens had, and it sounded like a few were doing worse than he was. He could handle three days. 

“Sure, that’s fine. I’ll probably be able to figure it out myself, if the instructions are as easy as you say.”

“I'm sure you can get ahold of the basics, and we can go from there. Here, I'll walk you out,” Hitchens said, grabbing a wand from his desk that looked similar to Hermione’s.

Ron tucked the booklets into the large inner pocket of his cape, and walked from the room quickly so he didn't slow Hitchens down in getting to his emergency case. He and the receptionist exchanged a brief nod, and then he was out into the hallway, his feet automatically turning towards the Auror department, where Harry was probably waiting for him by now to talk to Selby. Even though his appointment had been interrupted, he was still feeling pretty good about things. His threat was a department priority, and steps would probably be laid out this morning to deal with it. He wasn't sure what method Hitchens had given him to help with his nightmares, but something was better than nothing, and he had promised Ron that they would work on it. As long as he had a _plan_ for everything, he felt like he shouldn't have too much to worry about.

And that, both Harry and Hermione told him much later, was exactly when he should have started worrying. 


	11. Questionable Methods (This Life preserver is the Wrong Color)

**A.N. Hey! You might notice that the chapter is short (just shy of 6K) and I MIGHT go back in the future and combine it with the next one. But it was either a short chapter or a longer wait, and I know how you feel about waiting, lol. Things are hectic around here with an influx of customers (some unfortunately are badly trained), health problems of friends and family, and completely redoing my room--on top of my usual issues. But I'm trying to keep up on my writing!**

**Story Notes: Wouldn't it be nice if recovery was a straight Path? Maybe slowing down every once in awhile, but at least moving forward. The reality though, is that you're often going good forward, backward, and sideways. As much as you want to get better, you find yourself doing the stupidest things; becoming passive aggressive, snapping at or making comments designed to annoy the people who are supporting you, or reading negative meanings into perfectly innocent situations. And, of course, deciding that you're absolutely sure a new method won't do anything for you, before you really even give it a chance! (I'm guilty. So, SO guilty.) In this chapter, Ron deals with the rush of progress beginning to fade, and the natural foot dragging part of the process begins. Frustrating, but we've all been there!**

**Questionable Methods (This Life Preserver is the Wrong Color)**

Harry was standing outside of the office, and when he saw Ron coming, he quickly choked down the last bite of what looked like sausage wrapped in a piece of bread. 

“Kreacher’s day off, I see,” Ron joked, forcing a smile onto his face as he fought down the lingering anxiety from last night. 

“It was the second attempt at breakfast, and by that time, I was already running behind what I had planned,” Harry sighed, wiping his fingers on the lining of his cloak.

Ron paused with his hand on the door. “Second attempt?”

“Ginny tried to make eggs today.”

Oh. That explained it; Gin wasn't a bad cook, but for some reason, she just couldn't fry or scramble an egg without burning it, although every once and awhile her stubborn streak demanded she try. 

“Tough luck, mate. Why don't you drop by mine tonight?” He asked, knowing his sister was probably gone for the week. “We can get takeaway, if you don't want to cook for yourself.”

“I think I’ll at least attempt cooking, but I’ll stop by after. But for now, let’s go in and see if Selby’s made any progress since Saturday.”

“Maybe he’s already dealt with the bastard and it’s all over,” Ron said, unable to keep from smiling at the thought of Pethwick shitting his trousers at the sight of being brought in for questioning.

Harry shook his head. “Don't get your hopes up; I'm pretty sure he’d’ve called you in before now, if they’d found anything that could stick.”

“A man can dream,” Ron muttered, leading the way to Selby’s office, raising his hand to rap his knuckles against the door.

At the barked invitation to come in, he stepped into the office, giving Harry enough room to enter behind him and close the door.

“Weasley. Potter. I was going to call you in later, but I suppose you'd like to hear what we’ve found before you get to work.”

“Yessir,” Ron agreed. “I--we thought of a possibility of who might be behind this. You remember Pethwick--”

“Already ahead of you; you might recall there was someone I wanted to look into the other night.”

“Were you able to connect him at all?” Harry asked, his eyes narrowed in concentration.

Selby took a deep breath, leaning back and lacing his fingers across his chest, his elbows braced on the padded arms of his chair. “As you know, there are quite a few Spells we use to uncover information from evidence. The stationary, unfortunately, wasn't any help at all. The style was discontinued about six years ago, so there’s no real way to trace it. It could have been sitting around in anyone’s desk, where someone with access to the house could have taken it--”

“Or a spare box could’ve even been dropped at a charity shop if someone got tired of that set,” Ron added in frustration, recalling how his mum used to look for such things.

“Exactly. But the most interesting thing about it was the complete lack of magical signature,” Selby told them with a pointed look.

Harry and Ron exchanged glances.

“Could you tell what spell had been done to do that?” Ron asked.

“No. There was no trace of that, either.”

A tingling sensation spread across Ron’s scalp, something that always happened when he felt like he was onto something important. This was actually big news; erasing your magical signature was technically illegal, although it was only really enforced when combined with another crime. However, the Spells to remove it were few and far between, and you could always at least tell which had been used.

Except.

There was one spell, carefully guarded by the Auror department, that could remove even those traces--which wasn't the key to a criminal career that one might think, given that in itself narrowed the list of suspects considerably, and there were heavy consequences for using it outside of the job. Hell, even the paperwork it required for each use was enough of a deterrent to make sure it was used sparingly. Which meant that the only person who could be using it against him.....

“We’ve got the little cocksucker!” He he said triumphantly. “All we have to do is--”

“Not so fast, Weasley,” Selby interrupted before he got carried away. “I admit it makes him look very, very good for it, but it’s not conclusive--with only that as evidence, any half decent council would get him off. And there’s always the possibility, however slim, that someone else in the department is using your wellknown animosity towards one another against you.”

“So you're not even going to bring him in?” Ron asked, trying, with only mild success, to fight down the anger that was simmering just under the surface.

“Ron--” Harry began, putting a hand on his shoulder, which calmed him slightly--enough for him to unclench his fists.

“You've been on the job long enough to know exactly what’ll happen,” Selby said in a level tone. “We can bring him in for questioning, and all we’ll get out of it is that bloody smirk as he sits there, knowing we don’t have anything stronger than supposition and circumstantial evidence.”

Grudgingly, Ron knew he was right, but being this close and not being able to end it was pissing him off. “So, what? We do nothing?”

“That might work more in our favor,” Harry said cautiously. “You know what Pethwick’s like. If it’s him, he’ll try to goad you more than once, at the very least. And anyone who’s gone through training with him knows that if one thing’s for certain, he’s too cocky for his own good.”

The tension in Ron’s jaw eased as his face took on a look filled with calculation. “You're right, Harry. There’s no reason to go into the hole after vermin, if it'll come to you, if you just put out the bait.”

“Weasley, the last thing we want to do is give him a reason to cry entrapment,” Selby said.

“Right, but just acting as if I don't care about the letter wouldn't qualify, would it?” Ron asked, warming up to the idea. _“He_ cares about getting a reaction, so what if I just don't give him one? What if I act like nothing’s happened, or if I brush it off as a one time thing if anyone mentions it? I wouldn't even be doing it anywhere around him, but I'm sure it’ll get back to him through the gossip chain somehow.”

Selby seemed to consider it. “And you won't try to contact him directly? You won't do anything that could be considered as provoking him? And you'll be sure to stay alert, just in case we’re wrong, or he's more serious than we think at the moment?”

Ron nodded. “Absolutely. I won't go looking for him, and I won't let my guard down.”

“And people will be watching his back to make sure,” Harry said pointedly.

“Alright, then. I'm trusting you not to jump the wand. The investigation is still ongoing, and I’ll keep you up to date, but don't think that you're taking lead on this one.”

“Thank you, Sir,” Ron said, knowing that was the best he could hope for. 

“Then unless you have anything to add, you're dismissed,” Selby said, already going back to his papers.

They quickly left, but there was no time to talk privately since the others were trickling in for the morning. Ron, uncharacteristically, chatted a few minutes before going to his desk, letting the matter of Pethwick fade to the back of his mind as he got to work. 

 

 

“I'm sorry, but I just had to get out of there,” Hermione apologized again as the three of them walked over to the empty table at the small park.

“It’s fine, Hermione. Personally I always wonder how you can manage to spend so much time in that office,” Harry said, sitting down across from her and Ron.

“And the sun’s actually out, so it’s not all that cold,” Ron added, popping a chip into his mouth, and debating on whether or not to just eat his fish with his hands.

“Thanks. Usually I can take it, realizing that it takes time to make a difference, but sometimes, _sometimes_.......I just want to scream until they get it through their heads,” Hermione sighed, sipping her drink.

“You'll never make Minister if you give yourself an aneurysm before twenty-five,” Ron told her, privately thinking that she looked as if she could do with a holiday. 

“Enough about my day,” Hermione said, taking a deep breath and forcing cheer into her voice. “Fill me in on what you found out from Selby.”

In between bites of his fish, Ron gave her a summary of their meeting, watching as her brows slowly lowered into a displeased scowl.

“So we didn't find out much at all,” Harry said, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. “Nothing that'll get us anywhere, at least.”

“Can't he be brought in for questioning? Surely the fact that the magical signature was erased in such a specific way would be grounds enough for that!”

Both Harry and Ron shook their heads.

“Sure, technically it could be, but what good would it do? It doesn't point to him specifically, and you can bet he won't cry ‘it’s a fair cop’ if he's asked. The only thing that'll happen is that he's more careful in the future. It’s best to lure him out,” Ron said, wiping the grease off his fingers with one of the paper napkins Hermione had thought to snatch up. 

“It sounds like too big of a risk. What if he escalates things next time?”

“Then there’s more of a chance that something’ll go wrong, and we can catch him. He might get away with a few letters, but anything more than that will be harder--especially since we’re watching for anything that he might pull.”

“I know it sounds bad, Hermione,” Harry said, reaching out to pat her arm, “But he's lost the element of surprise, and that matters.”

Ron listened to them bat the point around, but he remained quiet as he stared down at the stains on the crumpled newspaper that had contained his lunch. Time was running out, and they’d have to go back to work soon, so he needed to get this over with before he put it off any longer. 

“Um, can I ask you two something?” He said suddenly, feeling his ears turn red as they both stopped talking mid-sentence to look at him.

“Of course you can, Ron!” Hermione said, angling her body to face him. 

“What is it, Ron? You're looking a little stressed.”

He fiddled with the newspaper, tearing tiny fringes in the edge. “I've been meaning to ask, but....with one thing and another, it’s slipped my mind,” he started, his eyes darting around to make sure no one was nearby. “You know Hitchens want to talk to me, try to get to the root of....whatever is causing my problem.”

“Is there something wrong with that?” Hermione asked, reaching out to take his hand.

“He wants to talk about the war,” Ron said, deciding to just be blunt. “He wants....he wants to talk about everything that happened to me. I'm not really comfortable going into that yet, but it’s gonna come up at some point. I just--just wanted to know if you minded. If you think I shouldn't, I'll tell him it’s off limits, but--”

“You should tell him,” Harry said, sounding surprisingly sure of himself.

It brought Ron up short, and all he could do was stare for a moment. “Really? You're sure about that?”

Harry shrugged. “Obviously it wouldn't be a good idea to go into the Horcruxes, but other than that....I think you're gonna need to, if he's going to help you.”

“And legally, he can't leak what you've told him, if that's what you're worried about,” Hermione added, watching him with a worried frown. 

“Alright then,” he said, trying to smile, but knowing it was shaky at best. “I’ll.....build up to it, then.” Wanting to change the subject, he rushed on, “Oh! And while I was there this morning, He gave me some stuff to read that he says should help me if I use it--”

“Wait, he just gave you something to read? He didn't discuss it, or walk you through it?” Hermione asked.

“He had an emergency with another patient and had to leave,” Ron explained. “He gave me some things to get started, and he’ll go over it with me himself next time.”

“He left you during a session? But you've barely even started! How could he leave you for--”

“Hermione, he does have other patients, you know? I reckon some are in worse shape than I am. Besides, you know that if I was the one that needed help like that, you'd be even more upset if he didn't come.”

“Well, yes, that's true,” Hermione admitted grudgingly. “I just wish the timing was better.”

“In a hurry to get me fixed?” He joked.

“Wha--No!” Hermione spluttered, looking appalled. “I would never--”

“So you don't want me to be fixed at all?”

“Ron! I--you don't need to be _fixed,_ that isn't what this is about--I just-”

Realizing he was being an arse to distract himself from how he was feeling, and feeling guilty at the way her eyes shimmered with held back tears, Ron backed off.

“Sorry, Hermione. I was just joking. I know you don't mean it like that. Look, why don't you--both of you--come over tonight and read over it with me? Maybe you could help me figure it out, or think of some questions I should ask.”

“Sure, since I’d already planned on coming by. Just let me know what time,” Harry said, crumpling up his trash. 

“Anytime after dinner’s fine,” Ron said, balling up the newspaper and napkins, and shooting them into the trash bin. He turned back to Hermione. “Hermione? What about you?”

She seemed to shake off whatever she was thinking, the faraway look in her eyes fading away as she focused on him. 

“Of course! I'll Floo over as soon as I’ve changed clothes and grabbed something to eat.” 

Harry glanced down at his watch, muttering something under his breath. “I’ll see you later then--I forgot there was something I wanted to take care of before my break was over.” With a wave, he jogged away, leaving the two of them sitting there.

“Ron?” Hermione asked, staring down at the picnic table. “You don't think that's what I think, do you? That you need to be fixed--that you're....broken, or something. Because that's the furthest thing from--”

Ron flinched, knowing her mind was racing, trying to think of anything she might or said or done to give him that impression. Why couldn't he have just kept his mouth shut? He knew how she obsessed over stuff like this when she was worried.

“Hermione, I know that. It was just a joke, I promise. You've never made me feel that way, so don't worry about it,” he sighed.

“Are you sure?” She asked, turning to look at him. “Because if I have done anything to make it seem like that, I'd want you to tell me.”

“I promise,” he said again. “It was just me being stupid. You really should be used to that now.”

“That’s not going to happen--”

“You mean you'll never get used to me being stupid?”

“Ron!” She wailed in frustration, giving his shoulder a smack.

He laughed, leaning over to kiss her cheek. “See? Just a joke. Don't worry so much, alright?”

“As long as you promise to tell me if I ever do make you feel that way,” she said, her brown eyes serious.

“I promise. And now, if you feel like you can get through the rest of the day without murdering your coworkers, we should probably get back inside,” Ron said, holding her arm to steady her when her leg tangled in her robe as she tried to swing it over the bench.

Nodding along as Hermione muttered about what, exactly, she could _legally_ do to make their lives as miserable as they were making hers, Ron realized that he hadn't told her or Harry about his nightmare. It was on the tip of his tongue to tell her now, but then he swallowed it. Why? It wasn't like anyone else could do anything about it. And why did he have to tell them every little detail? He'd managed to take care of it just fine, and it would just make them worry even more than they already did. His mind flashed briefly back to his promise to be open and to tell her what was going on with him, but he brushed it aside; that didn't mean every fiddly detail, and he’d told them both about the important things, and had even asked them for help tonight. Just because you told someone you were sick, didn't mean you had to let them know every time you sneezed, he reasoned. He was being honest, and he was being open, but he still deserved a bit of privacy. 

Feeling justified, he put it from his thoughts, and offered to see if George had anything she might like to use on a few of her more difficult coworkers.

 

 

Absently, Ron used the toes of one foot to scratch an itch on his other ankles as he stood at the stove, fixing a couple of ham and cheese toasties. It wasn't until he got home that it struck him that he could’ve just had Harry and Hermione over to eat, but he was doing good to have the energy to cook for one person as it was, so maybe it was just as well. He’d changed into jeans and an Auror Department t shirt that Hermione had had made for him when he graduated from training, not really feeling like dressing up. He wanted to be comfortable tonight, he thought, as he slid the last toastie onto the plate, and added a handful of crisps to go with them. 

He ate slowly, then even took the time to wash the dishes, struggling to keep his eyes from darting to the doorway, beyond to the living room where the pamphlets Hitchen’s had given him were laying. So far, he’d avoided looking at them, preferring to wait until the others got there. Truth be told, he was more than a little nervous to find out what was expected of him next, and even though he was glad he’d have time to process things before his next appointment, he didn't want to do the initial read through alone. 

He was about halfway through the Daily Prophet when Harry arrived, flopping down into the armchair.

“Hermione not here yet?” He asked, looking around as if she might pop up from behind the furniture at any moment. 

“No, you're the first. Which surprises me a little, since I figured Hermione’d be keen on reading these,” he gestured to the booklets.

“She must've been held up, because I'm sure she is,” Harry said. “Enough so that I'm not risking taking a peek before she gets a chance. Have you already gone through them?”

“Not really,” Ron said with a shrug, barely glancing at them before looking back at Harry. 

“You haven't looked at them at all, have you?” Harry asked, leaning his head on his fist.

“I wouldn't say not at all,” Ron protested.

“Not counting the covers.”

“Oh. Well then. No. Not really, I guess.”

“You worried about it?” Harry asked, eyeing him sympathetically.

“No. Yeah. A little. I know it’s stupid--”

“Why’s it stupid? It’s sort of like finding out what your next trial will be in a TriWizard Tournament. I'd be nervous too.”

“And what would you do about it?” Ron asked. 

Harry gave a shrug. “Same as you will. Put it off until you absolutely have to, when someone pokes and prods you to get it done. And then you'll just....do it, and you'll get through whatever it is.”

They both sat there silently, Ron feeling thankful at Harry’s blunt confidence in him.

A loud noise came from the fireplace, and in a flash of green light, Hermione staggered into the room, her hair frizzing around the clips that struggled to hold it in place.

“Drat, I'm the last one! What have I missed?” She asked, hurrying over to sit by Ron.

“Nothing, we were waiting on you. Did something happen?” Ron frowned, noticing she was flushed and slightly out of breath, as if she’d been rushing.

“Sort of. As soon as I finished dinner, I was contacted by the Muggle police--”

Both Ron and Harry sat forward, instantly worried.

“Apparently the alarm on my Mum’s house went off, and since I couldn't quite make out the rest of it, I had to go over and check. It turned out that it was only Mrs. Pearson from next door--the poor woman’s dementia is getting worse, and she thought she’d locked herself out of her own house, and was trying to get in.”

“They’re sure that’s what happened?” Harry asked.

Hermione nodded. “Oh, yes. I even waited until her daughter got there to pick her up--by then she realized what was going on, and was horribly embarrassed.”

“Did she do any damage trying to get in?” Harry asked, leaning back in his seat.

“No. Not aside from scratching a bit of the paint around the windows, but they need redoing anyway.”

“Glad it wasn't anything serious,” Ron said, taking her hand. For a few frightening moments, he had thought it might have been an attempt to get at Hermione.

She smiled at him, and took a deep breath. “Me, too. Now that the drama for tonight should be over, let’s move on to what we came for,” she said, already looking at the booklets.

“Not my sparkling wit and dashing good looks, I'm guessing,” Ron sighed theatrically to mask his unease. 

Hermione shot him a look, but then said lightly, “Maybe next time. Alright, how do we want to do this? Should we go through them individually, or should we each take one and highlight key parts so that--”

“Hermiiiiiioneeeeee!” Ron whined, flopping back against the sofa bonelessly. “We’re not gonna be quizzed on it! You act like we’re back in school.”

“Well, why don't we do it that way, then?” Harry said with a small smirk. “Hermione can read them to us, and we can absorb it that way.”

She froze in the process of reaching for one to give him an indignant glare. “If that’s your brilliant idea, then you can just think again! I don't intend to do all the work while the two of you slack off!”

“Please, Hermione?” Ron asked, making his eyes go as large as possible. You always explain things so well, and I can understand them better.”

“Rot. You managed beautifully during training, so don't try to flatter me.”

“Yes, but you helped me revise,” he pointed out, adding a slight lip quiver for effect. “I think it made a difference, don't you, Harry?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Harry nodded, turning on the old Orphaned Waif charm to help Ron.

“I should make the pair of you do it yourselves,” Hermione grumbled, fighting to keep the small smile that threatened to curve her lips away. “Fine, I know when to give up. But you'd both better pay attention, because I expect you to contribute!”

Ron settled against the cushions until he was comfortable, and listened as Hermione began to read. At first, he thought he was going to be fine. He told himself that the niggling little voice at the back of his mind earlier had just been nerves, and that with both of his best friends here, things wouldn't be so bad. But the more he heard, the more impossible it became to ignore; up until now he'd pretty much been doing everything that was suggested for him, but he might just have found his limit.

“Wait. Stop. That's enough,” he said, screwing up his face.

Hermione paused in mid-sentence, and both she and Harry looked at him expectantly. 

“Did you have a question about something?” Hermione asked, keeping her finger over the page to mark her place. 

“Yeah. What’s the bloody point?” He asked, feeling his lip curl back as he looked at the source of nonsense in Hermione’s hand.

“It already pretty much said what the point was,” Harry said, rather unhelpfully Ron thought.

“That can't be serious. Saying what color the sofa is, or how a chair feels, is supposed to help me? The sofa looks like vomit and the chair feels like termites would avoid it. There, all my mental problems, fucking solved! Who knew it’d be that easy?” He spat, his scowl only deepening as Harry and and Hermione traded a look. 

“It didn't say that it would work right away,” Harry said, acting as if Ron hadn't been listening right along with him. “You have to keep working at it.”

“Brilliant! So we just have to keep driving me over the edge, and maybe, eventually, taking inventory of my flat will help.”

“Why are you being so closed minded about this?” Hermione asked, setting the booklet back on the table, seeming to know he didn't want to hear anything further from it tonight.

“Because it’s stupid.”

“Just because it’s different, doesn't mean--”

“It’s not just different! It doesn't make any kind of sense! I've given everything else a try, and I know this won't work for me. And I think out of everyone, I'd be the best judge of that, yeah?”

Hermione’s face twisted into the expression she wore right before she made a particularly cutting remark, and while the last thing that Ron wanted was to actually fight, the part of his brain that was in control seemed to be demanding that he destroy every type of progress he had recently made like a small child knocking over a tower of blocks. He sat up straighter, preparing himself to give as good as she gave, when Harry spoke up.

Pointing at the box with several frames poking over the top, he asked, “What are these?”

It was very obviously an attempt at changing the subject, and for several seconds there was a charged silence, all three knowing that the next words spoken would set the direction for the rest of the night. Slowly, some of the desperate, self destructiveness ebbed out of Ron, the urge to sabotage himself passing. 

“I thought it looked a bit bare in here, so I asked Mum for some pictures she wouldn't mind parting with. Dad gave me some spare frames. I just haven't really had a chance to choose which ones and put them up yet,” Ron answered, his tone, if not quite normal, then at least fairly close to it.

Hermione silently slid the booklet she had been reading from back onto the coffee table, a physical sign of the unspoken agreement between the three of them to drop that subject, at least for now.

“Looks like she gave you a lot to choose from,” Harry said, peering into the box. 

“Have you had a chance to go through them yet?” Hermione asked pleasantly, having wiped the earlier frustration from her face.

“Uh, no, not yet. I probably should, though, before I forget. I promised to take the ones I don't use back to her.”

“I don't think I’ve ever seen some of these,” Harry grinned, holding up a picture of Ron.

Ron squinted at it, recognizing it as a picture his mum had took right before leaving for the Hogwarts Express on his first day of fourth year. In it, he looked supremely bored and put up upon, constantly looking over his shoulder and trying to shuffle off out of camera range.

“Here’s one of all three of us,” Hermione said, having reached into the box to go through a small stack.

It was at about the same time as the last one, and he didn't think any of them had realized someone was taking a picture. Judging by his expression and the way his mouth was moving, he was making some kind of sarcastic remark, to which Harry and Hermione responded by laughing so hard they nearly choked.

“That's a good one,” he said, setting it to the side to consider putting in a frame.

They continued to root through the box, laughing at some, smiling fondly at others, and his stack continued to grow. Most of them were pretty jumbled, so it wasn't uncommon to find a picture of Ginny at age six with both front teeth missing right next to a picture of Bill and Fleur’s wedding. 

“Oh, you have to keep this one!” Harry said with a wicked grin at Hermione, passing a picture to Ron.

In it, he saw that he was on the edge of the shot, looking like he was playing chess with an unseen opponent--probably Harry--but the photo was centered on Hermione, who, thinking herself unseen, was giving him a look of such affection that it was impossible to mistake her feelings for him. Near the end, she glanced up at the person holding the camera, blushing and ducking her head before the scene replayed itself.

Ron stroked the edge of the photo, setting it by itself in a separate part of the table. “Yeah, that one’s definitely worth keeping,” he said softly, grinning as Hermione blushed and turned away almost exactly as she had in the picture.

As they neared the bottom, things got more chronological, and there were several shots after the war. Many of them were of members of his family, looking frayed around the edges and wearing strained, false smiles, knowing they should be happy but too aware of the cloud of grief to fully be so. There was Harry, looking tired and smaller than you would expect of a hero, hovering on the sidelines before someone would pull him into the center. Ron knew it was because of the guilt he had felt over Fred’s death, and while they had finally helped Harry to move on, he wondered if he would ever truly be over it, or if he would carry it with him the same way he did for Sirius, Lupin, and Tonks.

There were also several of just him and Hermione together, both of them bruised and sickly looking, but undeniably together, constantly having to touch in some way, from holding hands to leaning into each other on the sofa. Several more of those were put aside, as were several of Harry, and his family. As the photos became more recent, he started to frown, which shifted into a scowl the more he flipped through. There were still pictures of him, but he seemed to be smiling less and less; sometimes it looked like he was even deliberately turning away from the camera. He began to draw away from other people, and he could see them giving him worried, sad glances over their shoulders, sometimes saying something to him before he walked away entirely. At some point, most of the pictures of him were with him completely alone, having wandered to another part of the house, or outside away from everyone. His expression became more and more withdrawn and sullen, and he looked about as approachable as the south side of a Blast-Ended Skrewt.

“What the hell did she think she was doing?” He growled, angrily throwing down the pictures, hard enough that several scattered to the floor.

Both Harry and Hermione looked at him in confusion. 

“Who did what?” Harry asked, glancing at the photos.

“Mum! Why did she put these in? Was she trying to prove what a twat I was being? Did she want to make me feel guilty for not getting help sooner?”

He snatched the offending pictures back up, barely resisting the urge to crumple them up, and slammed them back into the box. 

“Ron, your mum wouldn't do that. You know that, right?” Harry asked, leaning forward. “I love her, but she's never been subtle. She would've said something straight out. Besides, these all look like they were just tossed in here to get them out of the way.”

“Then why take these at all?” Ron shot back. “It’s like she's been saving them for years, waiting to pull them out and use them against me!”

“What was she supposed to do?” Hermione snapped, some of the heat from earlier returning. “You don't like how you are in those pictures, but that's how you were most of the time! Should she have cut you out completely? Pretended you didn't exist until you were ‘normal’ enough? You're her _son,_ Ron. You belonged there, and to be remembered, just as much as any other member of the family, even if those moments weren't always your best.”

He stared at her a few moments, startled by her outburst, before dropping his head into his hands. “I can't think right now,” he said with a heavy voice, “I just.....I just don't know.” 

He missed the look his friends exchanged over his head.

“Maybe we should stop for the night,” Harry suggested. “We still have work tomorrow, after all.”

“That’s true, and I still have some things I need to do before bed,” Hermione added. “Will you be alright, Ron? Should one of us stay?”

Rubbing his face, he sat up and shook his head. “No. No, I'll be alright. I'm sorry for....losing it there, I guess. I think maybe I should be alone until I get myself under control.”

“If you're sure,” Harry said, standing up. “But if you have any problems, you can Floo call or just Apparate over, okay?”

“To both of us,” Hermione said, rising from the sofa.

Ron nodded, mustering up a faint smile. “Thanks, but I'll be fine, I promise.”

Harry clapped him on the shoulder and Apparated away, while Hermione gave a heavy sigh which he knew meant she was still frustrated, although she gave him a surprisingly gentle kiss on the cheek before she left.

Sitting in his flat, surrounded by silence, Ron gave himself a mental shake.Harry was right; his mum wouldn't have set something up like that--she’d always gone for a more head-on approach, and she definitely wouldn't do it now that he was actually getting help, which he knew she was happy about.

What was his problem? He was all over the place today; fine one minute, a sarcastic arse the next, and paranoid as hell the one after that! He couldn't understand why; nothing had really happened, aside from the nightmare, and being a little frustrated that people wouldn't understand that it was pointless to go through treatment that didn't make sense. Even Harry and Hermione, as close as they were to him, didn't seem to really get it. He needed someone that knew what this felt like; someone to tell him if he really was going mental, or if it was just....part of the process. He needed someone who’d been through something similar, and could give him some kind of advice on what to do next.

He checked his watch. It was late, but George spent most nights staying up late and tinkering with new ideas, so it wasn't _too_ late.

“And as many nights that I dragged his sorry arse out of one pub or another, he owes me,” Ron muttered, before Apparating away.

 

 

 


	12. Chapter 12

**Story Notes: One of the more charming (heavy sarcasm) aspects of a lot of mental illnesses is the completely bizarre way we sabotage ourselves, often without meaning to, or even realizing it. We want help, we KNOW we need it, we even appreciate the people who give it to us.....but for some strange reason that makes us want to bang our heads against a wall, we manage to do our best to push them away, usually through passive aggressiveness and sarcasm. And honestly, it makes us harder to help. Not just because of the (even unintentional) pain we can cause, but because it makes it hard for them to know when it's a symptom of the mental illness, or if we're actually trying to push them away because we no longer want them. Wondering if they're doing the right thing by sticking it out, or making things worse by forcing themselves on a person against their will can be a difficult thing to judge, even more so when communicating feelings is difficult for at least one of the people involved. And of course, sometimes it's nice to get some perspective from someone a little farther along than you are, even if the most they can do for you is to reassure you that what you're going through is 'normal.'**

Hermione arrived in her flat to find Harry waiting for her, as she expected he would be; the look he had given her at Ron’s had said loudly that he wanted to talk. She sat down on the sofa, feeling utterly tired.

“He’s lying,” Harry said without preamble, pacing back and forth in front of her. “Did you notice?”

“I don't think he was __lying.__ Just.....most likely leaving a lot out,” she said, considering the evening.

“Fine, if you want to get technical. But why? It’s _ _us.__ He knows he can trust us, right?”

“I don't think it’s about trust, Harry,” she protested, even though she knew where he was coming from. “After all, I recall you doing the same to us on more than one occasion.”

Harry gave a dramatic sigh, and dropped onto the sofa next to her, making the springs squeak and jostle her. “That was....different.”

“How?”

He shrugged. “For one thing, I was just a stupid kid. And I was under a lot of stress--”

“Ron’s under a lot of stress, too.”

“I know that! I'm not saying he's not! I just wish that, well, he'd be a bit more open with us.”

“I think he's being as open as he can,” Hermione said, looking down at her folded hands. “And considering how he was just a couple of months ago, he’s being amazingly open with us.”

Harry regarded her for several moments. “Maybe it’s just me being weird, then. I dunno, I guess I just thought you'd be taking it harder.”

Hermione gave a small laugh, raising her hands slightly out of her lap before letting then drop back down. “Oh, trust me, I'm having a hard time. I hate seeing him struggle, and not know how best to help him. It frustrates me that he clearly knows he needs to do something to help, but dismisses things without even trying them first.”

“Well, I can kind of see his point on that, to some extent,” Harry acknowledged, scratching his ear. “It doesn't make a whole lot of sense, does it? Like he said, just describing the things around you doesn't sound like it'll help much.”

“I admit I don't understand it completely, and I'm not going to be hypocritical and say that I wouldn't have my own doubts in the same situation. But that doesn't mean it won't work! It’s like drowning and someone tossing you a life preserver, and you push it away because the color doesn't suit you.”

“He went through with the first thing Hitchens gave him to do. You don't think he's avoiding the hard stuff and only sticking to the things that look fun, do you?”

She considered that, but shook her head almost immediately. “Honestly? No. Maybe when we were kids, I could see him doing that--most people would--but Ron’s matured a lot since then. After all, he wasn't to keen on a potion to begin with, but he still tried it.”

“I didn't think so, either. So why do you think he's resisting this one so much?”

Hermione threw up her hands in a helpless gesture. “I don't know! Honestly, I don't think Ron does, either. I suppose it’s just a natural part of the process, otherwise people would be recovered as much as they were going to be in a matter of weeks. Maybe you make progress for awhile, and then you just sort of....hit a plateau before you make the next step.”

“Makes about as much sense as anything. On the bright side, he wasn't at that level of stubborn where you know he’ll never change his mind. I think eventually, grumbling and complaining, he’ll end up trying it.”

“I hope so,” Hermione bit her lip, glancing up at him before continuing. “What I was worried about more, though, was.....well, did you notice anything about him today? The way he was with me, I mean,” she asked, wanting to see if it was really happening or if she was just being sensitive. 

Harry cocked his head. “You mean the little comments he made, almost like he was trying to antagonize you into an argument? Yeah, I did. Of course, it wasn't anything nearly as bad as the last couple of years, but it was enough for me to pick up on.”

She sighed; she had hoped she had been imagining it. “I was afraid of that. It isn't like our normal bickering--I don't mind that--and it wasn't even like fighting, which I don't like, but I know how to handle. It’s almost like he does that either to distance people, or so that he can blame them if he makes a bad choice. Like, ‘Well, I wouldn't have done that if you hadn't pushed me so hard,’ or something. You know?”

Harry nodded. “Yeah. I think it’s always easier to justify something if you're mad at someone, and can find some way to blame them. Maybe since getting help was sort of your idea, subconsciously he picked you to blame if it goes wrong or something?”

“The key word is ‘subconsciously.’ I know he isn't doing it on purpose, but it still worries me, especially since I know it can escalate.”

“‘Course he isn't. Ron’s mouth gets him in the most trouble, but he always hates when it hurts you. You're gonna have to talk to him about it; I know he wouldn't want you to wait until it gets worse.”

Hermione let out a shaky laugh. “Isn't it funny? I usually have no trouble being confrontational, but when it comes to this, I keep wanting to put it off, even though I know you're right.”

“I know it’d be easy to let it slide, but it’s better to do it now. If you wait until it builds up and he says something really hurtful, you'll just end up snapping back, which won't be good for either of you.”

“I know. We’ve been down that particular road before, and I'm in no hurry to revisit it. I’ll talk to him about tomorrow at lunch, if you wouldn't mind giving us a few minutes.”

“That’s fine, since I'm probably going to be gone during lunch anyway. I'm going to try to see if I can find something for Teddy’s birthday.”

“Isn't it a little early?” Hermione asked, wondering if she was losing track of time.

“A bit, but Ginny says I always wait until the last minute, and I want to prove her wrong,” Harry said with a laugh. 

“Oh. Well, as long as you don't feel like I'm trying to rush you off....” Hermione said. She knew this discussion with Ron needed to be private, but she didn't want to make Harry feel unwanted. 

“I don't, trust me. I prefer not to be around when Mum and Dad discuss things,” he said, standing up. “It’s getting late, so I think I’ll head home, just in case Ron tries to Floo call and doesn't get me. You going to be okay?”

She stood and gave him a quick hug. “I’ll be fine--and even better when I get that talk with Ron out of the way. Once I do that, I can concentrate on figuring out ways to encourage him to try what Hitchens is suggesting, without coming across as nagging, and then everything should be back on track.”

“Good. I’ll just happen to stop by his flat before work tomorrow, to see which way his mood’s blowing, and I’ll let you know what to expect.”

“Don't you think he’ll be suspicious that you're checking up on him?” Hermione asked, walking him over to the fireplace.

“I’ll bring breakfast. Nothing soothes a savage Weasley like a large injection of calories,” he answered, grabbing a handful of powder.

Hermione shook her head in amusement as he disappeared in a cloud of green smoke, thinking it was highly unfair, in that case, that she was going to have to talk to Ron over an uninspiring canteen lunch. Thoughtfully, she walked into the kitchen and began pulling out the ingredients for brownies. 

“A spoonful of sugar helps the medicine, go down, after all,” she muttered.

 

 

The shop was silent when Ron arrived, the garish, over the top displays looking eerie in the moonlight that filtered in through the large front windows. Ron paused, wondering if he should just go home; if his brother wasn't in the back, he wouldn't bother checking upstairs, since he didn't want to interrupt anything if Angelina was over. The floorboards creaked as he made his way to the back room, where a thin beam of light shone from under the door. Slowly, Ron opened it, giving himself plenty of room to duck back if whatever George was working on went out of control.

When nothing happened, he took a step forward, finding George sitting at the large work table, hunched over and poking at a variety of objects abstractedly. His fake ear was towards the door, and he didn't appear to have heard Ron come in; at most other times, Ron would use this to his advantage, but he was too tired tonight, and it was generally considered bad form to scare the pants off someone right before you asked for help.

“George?” He said, raising his voice as he stepped farther into the room.

Startled, George looked up, a screw slipping from his fingers and rolling across the table. “Ron? What are you doing here so late? Or did you stop by for some of that pest control I mentioned?”

Ron was confused at first, but the way George’s eyes lit up with mischief made him realize he was talking about Pethwick, and not mice.

“No. Not tonight, at least. I just wondered if you had some time to....talk.”

George regarded him thoughtfully, then gestured to the stool across from him. “Sure. I have to warn you that I'm not exactly having one of my __best__ nights, but I think I can talk.”

Ron stepped back. “If you're not up to it, that's fine. I can come back--”

“Get in here! It’s too late to back out now that I'm curious. Is everything alright?”

Slowly, Ron walked over and sat on the stool, hooking his feet around the small bar between the front legs. 

“Mostly. I guess. I'm just trying to figure some things out, and....”

“And you thought you'd seek out my infinite wisdom,” George nodded sagely. “Good idea.”

“Something like that,” Ron snorted.

George swept the project he had been working on to the side, several glass vials rattling ominously, and leaned forward to rest his chin on his hands.

“Alright then, let’s hear it--insert requisite all ears joke.”

“You've been seeing a Healer now for a while, right?”

“Yeah, ages, why?”

Ron rubbed his fingers over the grain of the tabletop. “Has he....has he ever asked you to do something you thought was stupid?”

George laughed. “She, actually, and definitely--although in the beginning, I thought the whole thing was stupid, so there’s that.”

“That's not what I....I mean something that didn't make sense to you. At all. That you couldn't see how it could help anyone, let alone you.”

“Like?” George asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Like standing there like you have pudding for brains, describing in nauseating detail what the room looks like,” Ron spat in disgust.

“Oh. You mean grounding, or whatever they call it.”

Ron’s head snapped up. “You've actually heard of it? Don't tell me they tried to make you do it!”

George shrugged, looking slightly embarrassed. “Well. Yeah.”

“And it actually __works?”__

“It didn't at first--I thought it was pretty mental myself. But....Ange kept pestering me to stick with it, and eventually I noticed it was actually doing something. You know how when I get in one of my, um, low periods, and I get kind of fuzzy on whether or not Fred’s still here? Usually after a dream.”

Ron nodded. If you were around George long enough, you'd catch him looking around with a confused look on his face, or pausing during a sentence to wait for Fred to finish it.

“We sort of tweaked it for me. I don't really do a running inventory, like you said, but it’s more like one of those spot the difference puzzles that used to be in magazines when we were kids. For me, I run through all of the differences wherever I am of between when Fred was still here, and now. It helps me snap back to the here and now faster.”

“Okay,” Ron said with a shrug, “I can see that. That actually makes some kind of sense. But my problem isn't the same, so that sort of proves it won't work for me.”

George gave him a look. “You're missing the point. I didn't think it would work. And it wouldn't have, if I’d only tried it a few times and quit, instead of customizing it to fit me. Maybe you're right, maybe it won't end up helping you. Or maybe it will. Maybe you just need to find your own spin to put on it. Most things are gonna be like that, Ron.”

His head drooped dispiritedly; a large part of him had been hoping George would tell him it was all bollocks, and he could ignore it.

“Sounds like the mental healing business is the way to go,” he said bitterly. “Just hand out a bunch of bullshit and tell ‘em to figure out what works, then take the credit.”

“Hm, I see you've hit the bitter and stubborn stage,” George commented, the corner of his mouth turning up. “Might as well get out of it fast--it won't do you any good, I promise.”

“Yeah? I seem to recall you spent more than your fair share in it, so you can slide down off that tall hippogriff.”

George shrugged. “I'm the first to admit I was a world class arse there for awhile,” his eyes flicked up to the ceiling, “And Angelina is quick to let me know I still have my moments. I'm not judging you, Ron. It’s just.....weird to be on the other side of it.”

Ron grunted, then sighed. “Fine, I’ll think about it. I still don't think it’ll work, but at least people can't throw it in my face that I didn't try.”

“That’s the spirit,” George laughed dryly. “So, was that it? Just needed confirmation that they weren't giving you whatever bizarre task they could think of, then laughing behind your back when you actually did it?”

“Sort of,” Ron mumbled. “Oh, there was....one other thing. It’s stupid, though, so I’ll just--”

“Come on, let’s hear it,” George cut in, reaching out as Ron started to slide off the stool.

Ron licked his lips nervously, hoping this question would get a better answer than the last one. “Do you ever find yourself.....saying things you know you shouldn't? Like, when someone’s helping you, and you just.....something pops out that makes it sound like you don't __want__ their help, or that they're not doing it right, or questions their motives, or....well, just generally fucks things up and sets back any progress you might have made.”

“Do you even have to ask? C’mon, Ron. You've been on the receiving end on some of the comments I’ve dredged up from the farthest corners of my arse.”

“True enough,” Ron allowed. “But I don't get why I'm doing it! I mean, sometimes I don't even really notice I’m doing it, and other times, it’s like I'm just trying to see how quickly I can make everything go to hell.”

George’s smile took on a bitter edge. “Yeah, I'm pretty familiar with that. Sometimes you're doing alright, hanging on, maybe even making some progress, and then the next minute you're knocking it down like a little kid with a tower of blocks, just because you can.”

“How do you stop?” Ron asked desperately, and then snarled, “And I swear if you tell me it takes time and practice--”

“In the interest of keeping my one remaining ear attached to my head, I won't say it,” George held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Unfortunately, though, just because you don't want to hear it....”

“What am I gonna do, George?” He moaned, slumping forward. “It’s bad enough in general, but I can tell I'm starting to push things with Hermione. I can't ask her to be with me, and keep hurting her like that. It isn't fair.”

“You're right, it’s not. Unfortunately, that isn't going to stop it,” George said bluntly, suddenly looking tired. “Even though I'm doing better, I still get into what Angelina calls one of my moods. “In fact, that’s why I’m down here right now; she sent me down until I had an attitude adjustment.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Remember the look she’d give you if you weren't playing up to her standard when she was captain?”

Both of them shuddered. 

“The eye,” Ron muttered. “That one eye.....”

“Ange is an amazing, strong woman, and I admire that,” George sighed, “I just wish she wasn't __quite__ so good at that look, you know? But I can't really blame her. She’s supportive and she takes a lot into account, but she has a set limit of what she lets me get away with, and once I've reached it, that’s it. I get told in no uncertain terms to shape up. I'm sure Hermione’s the same.”

“Not....really,” Ron said guiltily. “Well, she is, but she hasn't been. She hasn't said anything about it, which worries me.”

“That doesn't sound like Hermione,” George agreed. “Unless....I reckon she’s at that stage where she’s trying to stay nice and understanding, and not upset you. Angelina did that at first, trying to wait it out. Didn't last very long, though. If I were you, I'd talk to her before you have the same lovely little fight I did; if you thought the Captain Look was bad....”

“Think I'd rather have that than the stiff upper lip martyred smile,” Ron said.

“Like I said, you’re going to have to talk to her about it. Just because she wants to be supportive doesn't mean she can't stand up for herself. Things didn't get better for me and Ange until she did.”

Ron heaved a sigh. “I guess.....I just wish I knew what to say to her to help. ‘Hey, Hermione, would you mind lovingly and gently telling me that I'm a fuckup? Thanks.’”

“I might know a way to help, but I'd have to think about it,” George said, rubbing his chin. 

“Nothing weird, right?” Ron asked, squinting suspiciously. 

George waved him off. “Nothing from the shop or anything, no. Look, just let me work something out--you have a little faith in me, right?”

“A little, yeah,” Ron said, trying without success to read his brother’s expression. 

“Then if things work out, I might be able to help a bit--either way, you still need to talk with Hermione about communication, blah, blah, couple things, blah, blah, responsible adult things, yadda, yadda.”

By which Ron could tell that George had reached his limit on dealing with an emotional subject. Well, if he seriously thought he could do something to help, Ron was willing to let him try; if it ended horribly he could always get revenge later. 

“Yeah, I'll do that. Thanks, George. I'm still not exactly sure what I'm going to do, but talking helped. I’ll go ahead on home; good luck with Angelina.”

“I'm kind of surprised she hasn't come down,” George said after glancing at his watch. “I've gone over my usual hour of sulking for pride’s sake before I go back up to grovel to get into her good graces.”

“You seriously stay down here for an hour, just to keep from looking pathetic?” Ron smirked.

George shrugged one shoulder. “Oh, we both know I’m ready to come crawling back up in half that time, but she let’s me keep my illusions.”

Ron held on the first few comments that came to mind, knowing that George would only point out that he was the same, if not worse, when it came to Hermione. With another goodbye, he Apparated home, and gave the flat a going over in case any surprises had been left for him. Finding it clear, he relaxed and got ready for bed, thinking over what George had said. As far as the methods he had been given to try went, he was still highly sceptical, but would, grudgingly, at least try it a few times, if he could even remember when he needed to. As for the Hermione part.....as much as he dreaded it, he knew he needed to talk to her. As much as he was trying not to, he knew he was coming dangerously close to saying things he shouldn't--if he hadn't actually hurt her feelings yet, he’d at least knocked up against them. She needed to start calling him on it, before it got out of hand; not go full Canary Mental on him, but just calmly, lovingly point out when he was being an arse. 

He slid into bed, and placed his wand under his pillow. Now all he had to do, he thought wryly, was to tell her that, without making it sound like he was blaming her for not saying anything sooner.

The next day, Ron took his potion, psyched himself up as much as he could in front of the mirror, and went into work. Instead of going straight to his desk and staying there as he usually did, he wandered over and joined the conversation, mostly listening to the office gossip, but occasionally throwing in a comment here and there. He received a few surprised looks, but everyone seemed at least willing to let him join in, so he figured they were mostly reacting to the fact that he wasn't generally sociable, rather than any desire for him to stay away. It was easier when Harry got there, because even though they both stayed in the group, he felt more comfortable having someone he knew well close by. As people began to drift towards their desks, he took Harry to the side.

“Hey, Ron! I stopped by your place this morning, but you'd already left. Everything alright?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, everything’s fine. Um, Harry, about lunch today--”

“Sorry, can't make it,” Harry said. “I have a few things to take care of; you mind eating with Hermione today?”

“No, that’s fine,” Ron answered, relieved that he wasn't going to have to ask to be alone with her. 

He knew Harry wouldn't mind giving them privacy--hell, he'd probably be glad to miss out on that kind of conversation--but Ron didn't want to ask so often that it seemed like he'd rather not have Harry there at all.

Once at his desk, he grabbed a piece of parchment and was just about to write a note to Hermione, when a small paper airplane whizzed past his nose and landed neatly on his desk. Unfolding it, he saw it was from her.

__Ron,_ _

__Would you mind if just the two of us had lunch today? I need to talk to you._ _

__Love, H._ _

With a small frown, he wrote back that he’d be there, then sat back, the quill dangling from his fingers. That was odd. Why did she want it to be just the two of them? Was she mad? Had he pissed her off more than he’d realized, and was she ready to rip him a new arsehole? Or, worse, he thought, sitting up straighter, was she going to say she was done? No. Surely not. He would've known if things were __that__ bad. Wouldn't he? Of course. Except......he hadn't the first time....

He spent the rest of the morning in a nervous sweat, his mind going through every possible scenario, alternating between begging and pleading, or taking it stoically. The minutes seemed to drip by like frozen syrup, but lunch finally rolled around, and with a heavy heart and churning stomach, Ron plodded to the canteen to get their trays.

There was a flood of people in the hallways coming his way as he balanced the food, but none of them paid him any attention above what it took to take half a step to the side to prevent them colliding with him. He recognized a few from Hermione’s department; they were carrying their bags and umbrellas, as if they had no intention of returning after lunch, the lazy sods. 

Pausing at her door in an unsuccessful attempt to steady his nerves, he pushed it open, since he was expected, and returned the hesitant smile she gave him when she looked up from her desk.

“Is it that time already?” She asked, checking her clock. “Merlin, you must've been first through the line!”

“Third, actually,” he said with a weak laugh, setting the food down on the spot she cleared on her desk. “Their choices looked rather limited today, so I went with what looked safest; hope that’s alright.”

Hermione accepted the salad and turkey sandwich, then frowned at what was left. “This will be fine for me, but what about you? Don't tell me you already ate most of yours before coming up!”

Ron sat down and winced at his meal; he hadn't felt very hungry, and had chosen a cup of soup--at least, they had _ _said__ it was soup, but it looked more like what was left when his mum was done washing the clothes. 

“S’okay. I'm not that hungry, anyway,” he said, swirling his spoon in the bowl, briefly wondering what kind of broth could possibly be gray, and just as quickly deciding he didn't want to know.

At that, Hermione set her fork down in her salad bowl, a drop of dressing sliding down the slightly wilted lettuce she had speared. “Ron, are you alright?” She asked, leaning forward to search his face. “I know the canteen isn't known for its haute cuisine, but it isn't like you not to have a full meal.”

He shrugged. “I'll be fine. It’s not like I'm missing out on much. I wasn't joking when I said that this was the best there was today. Besides, there was something I wanted to talk to you about, and apparently something you wanted to say too,” he added, deciding that it was going to be impossible to make small talk until he knew what was on her mind.

She gave him a startled look before dropping her eyes, her fingers fidgeting with her napkin. “Oh. Yes, there was.....but if there was something you wanted to say, you can--”

He shook his head. “No, really, you go first. Mine.....might not matter anymore, anyway.”

Hermione gave him a puzzled look, before giving her head a small shake and taking a deep breath. “I was trying to avoid this, and I spent most of last night trying to figure out how to bring this up, but I suppose the best thing is to just come out and say it.”

A cold ball formed in his stomach, sending icy tendrils throughout the rest of his body. She was doing it. She was breaking up with him. Fuck! Fucking......what was he going to do?

“Are you upset with me for something?”

He blinked at her. He tried running the conversation through his head, then blinked again.

“Am I.....what?” He asked, hoping for some sort of clarification. 

“Are you upset with me?” Hermione asked, slowly articulating every word. “Have I done something to make you mad? Said something to hurt your feelings?”

“What? No, of course not, why would you think that?” He asked, still confused.

She gave a halfhearted shrug. “Because lately, I've been noticing.....well, it’s not all the time, and it’s not _ _that__ bad, it’s just.....some of the things you say. It’s like you're upset with me, and you're....I don't know, almost like you're trying to goad me, or something.”

Ron sagged against his chair in relief, the wood squeaking in protest. “Is that what you wanted to talk about? Thank fucking Merlin!”

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, tilting her head.

“That’s actually what I wanted to talk to you about, but when I got your note, I thought.....I thought you were wanting to break up, or something.”

Hermione jerked back, one of her hands coming up to rest on her chest. “Wha--no, why on earth would you think.....do you mean that that’s what you've been thinking all morning? Ron, that's awful!”

He rubbed the back of his neck, knowing from the heat that both it and his ears were a bright red. “Couldn't be sure, could I? You said you had somethin’ important to talk about alone, and since I was already worried about what you __actually__ wanted to talk about.....I just sort of figured that you'd had enough.”

“I'm sorry, I should have been more clear,” she reached across to take his hand. “That isn't what I want. At all. I just......I just wanted to clear this up, and I didn't think we needed to do it in front of Harry.”

Ron held her hand, finding comfort in the way her fingers fit against his. “Yeah, I was going to ask him if he minded giving us today, but he already had something he had to do. And now that I think about it, I guess it was pretty stupid to think you'd do that here, if you were going to. At least I didn't have one of my bloody meltdowns over it,” he sighed.

“That __is__ a plus,” Hermione agreed. “Is the potion helping?”

He thought about that, then answered, “Yeah, I think so; I mean, I'm definitely nervous, but I can control it.”

“Good. I know that was bothering you a lot.” She licked her lips. “So, what was it that you wanted to say? I wasn't sure if you were even aware of it or not, so I was a little worried bringing it up.”

Ron pushed his soup away, giving up any pretense of eating. “That’s part of it, actually. I'm not always aware I'm doing it. Sometimes I don't realize it until later. Sometimes I don't at all. And....that’s sort of the thing I needed to talk to you about. I need you to tell me when I'm doing that, you know? I--and I don't want you to think I'm trying to shove responsibility off on you, I know I need to work on keeping that under control and recognizing when I'm doing it--but still, you can't....you can't just let it slide, Hermione. I know I can hurt you, and I know you've been easy on me, but that's not really fair.”

“I'm not sure I'd go as far as to say __easy,”__ Hermione protested. “Things haven't been _ _that__ bad.”

“And I don't want them to get there before we do something about it,” Ron answered.

“I know. That’s why I realized I had to bring it up. I've just hated to in the past, when you've been having good days; I didn't want to ruin them.”

“Hermione, if trying to keep from hurting you, even without meaning to, ruins my day, then you really __should__ break up with me,” he snorted, and then hastily added just in case, “Which it doesn't, by the way. I'd like to be very clear on that point.”

She smiled at him, and it came easier than her previous ones. “I'm glad to hear it.” Her smile faded a bit, replaced by a look of curiosity. “But do you even know why you're doing it? If I haven't done anything to upset you--”

“And you haven't,” he hastened to assure her.

“Then what brings it on? You say you're not always aware of it, and I believe you, but maybe if we can figure out why, it'll be easier to stop.”

Ron shrugged, his head feeling uncomfortably tight as his temples gave a throb. “I.....I really, truly have no fucking clue. It’s like, I’ll be going along, mostly fine, and then.....it’s like there’s this....urge, I guess you'd call it, telling me to wreck everything.”

“And you don't know what starts it?”

He shook his head, running his hand through his hair in a frustrated, quick motion. “No idea. It’s almost overwhelming, but at the same time, it’s really subtle, you know? No, I guess you wouldn't,” he said glumly, hating his inability to put it in words.

“Ron, it’s alright--well, it’s not, in a way, but what I mean is, we’ll figure it out,” she said, taking his hand again. “Until we’ll do, I just have to be quicker to let you know it’s happening.”

“And I’ll do my best to make sure you don't have to quite so often,” he said, knowing that he couldn't realistically promise to stop completely, when he hadn't figured out how to, but still wanting to show he was going to do his best.

Before anything else could be said, the door flew open, and a wide eyed, flushed Martin stuck his head in. 

“Weasley, we think we have Chambers!” He said excitedly. “Selby said to get you, and that the two of us should scout ahead--you want to come, right?”

Ron was on his feet before Martin had even finished speaking; if this was true, this was a huge break! And Martin was a decent bloke, but there was no way in hell he should be going off alone on something like this. 

“Of course I'm coming! Come on, you can give me the details before we Apparate--” he turned, suddenly, to face Hermione, who had stood up, her face gone pale. “I'm sorry, I really have to go--can I drop by yours tonight?”

She nodded, although the worried crease between her eyes didn't lessen. “Yes, come over as soon as you can--and Ron?”

“Yeah?” He called back, already half into the hall.

“Be careful. Please.”

He grinned, adrenaline already rushing through his system, plans for possible scenarios forming in his head. “Don't worry, I know what I'm doing--we won't go in before we have a solid plan! See you tonight!”

He was moving away, barely registering her dark muttering about past luck with plans. 

 

 

The sharp spray of hot water struck against Ron’s upturned face, muting the voices of the Aurors outside the stalls. While he was technically free to leave, since he’d finished his portion of the paperwork, he usually preferred to shower after a mission before going home--it was a good way to discover any nasty little surprises that might have been lobbed his way without him knowing, and get them seen to by a Healer before they had time to do much damage. Today, though, he’d mostly been washing off muck and grime, still high on victory. Finding Chambers had been easy enough, once they’d been tipped off; things had only gotten hairy when they thought it was a hostage situation, before realizing it was a slick bit of magic with wards and an animated mannequin. 

All in all, it wouldn't normally be much to write home about, except that A, Chambers had a long line of particularly nasty crimes he was responsible for, and B, this broke the drought the department had been going through--even some came into the office to hear about it, even though they were off duty. 

As the last of the soap swirled down the drain, Ron cut the water and reached out for his towel, giving himself a brief scrub before wrapping it around his waist and stepping out. He had just finished using his wand to dry himself off the rest of the way when a hand landed on his shoulder; biting back a curse, he forced himself to lower his wand as he turned to face a grinning Martin.

“That was a fantastic job out there, Ron! You were bloody brilliant!” 

The momentary irritation of being snuck up on faded as Ron looked down at Martin, whose cheeks were still flushed from excitement. He still had puppy fat, for Merlin’s sake; it was impossible to stay mad at him. It also helped that Ron knew the compliment was genuine. Martin wasn't stupid, and he wasn't a bad Auror, but he was most likely never going to rise to the top of the department. In spite of that, he was never jealous of anyone else’s success, and also didn't go to the other end to become a kissarse. He was, Ron reflected, an honest and decent person, someone he was becoming more comfortable with the more he interacted with him.

“Thanks, you weren't half bad yourself out there,” he said, slipping into his trousers. He meant it, too; while Martin hadn't done anything particularly outstanding, he’d made fewer mistakes than he had in the past, definitely showing signs of improvement. 

“Really?” Martin asked, looking pleased and slightly embarrassed at the praise. “I guess the extra practice is finally paying off. Oh! I almost forgot what I came in for--a bunch of us are going down to the Leaky tonight to celebrate; wanna come?”

Surprisingly, he did. Just like old Quidditch games, part of the fun was reliving the moment several times over, each person jostling to give a new detail. Just as he was about to agree, he remembered Hermione, and hesitated. It wasn't like he didn't know that she would most likely understand if he sent her a message saying he wanted to celebrate, but tonight was different than usual. They had been interrupted today, and while he __thought__ that they were on the same page, it probably wasn't a good idea to assume she didn't have more to say, or to seemingly ditch her for something ‘fun’ so soon after that kind of conversation, like he was blowing her off.

“Ah, I can't. Next time though, yeah?” He said, twisting to get his shirt down from where it had bunched at his shoulder blades. 

“Oh,” Martin said, obviously disappointed. “I know you usually don't, but we’d kind of hoped.....”

“It’s not that I don't want to. Really.” Ron found himself compelled to explain. “I just.....well, to be honest, I had a sort of....problem with my girlfriend. Not a fight or anything--but I said I'd stop by tonight, and--”

Martin’s face cleared. “Gotcha,” he said, nodding. “I've been there. But if you want, and she feels like it, both of you should feel free to stop by, even if it’s just for a few minutes. I think we’ll be there for awhile,” he gave a wry smile as someone hooted loudly from the other room.

“Martin, get out here--first rounds are on you, mate!” Another one called.

“Be there in a minute!” He yelled back with a long-suffering sigh.

“You need to learn how to speak up for yourself,” Ron told him, lacing up his shoes and grabbing his things to toss in his locker.

Martin nodded. “I know. That’s what my girlfriend, Vachi always tells me. She says I need to be more assertive, and stand up to people; quit letting so many people tell me what to do and how to live my life.”

Ron used his fingers to comb his hair, and asked, “Did you tell her you'd start with her?” He had to smirk a little at the irony of Martin’s girlfriend trying to solve the problem of him letting people tell him what to do, by telling him what to do.

“I joked about it, once,” Martin grinned. “She told me she said to be assertive, not suicidal.”

At that, Ron had to laugh. “She sounds like she’d get along well with Hermione. And speaking of Hermione, I’d better get going--I think the paperwork took longer than the actual capture.”

“Doesn't it bloody always?” Martin asked mournfully, then brightened. “Alright then, see you later! And don't forget, you can still drop by later if you want to.”

Ron nodded as he watched him leave, then made sure that he had his wand and wallet in the correct pockets before Apparating to Hermione’s flat. He went ahead and arrived in her living room, since she was expecting him.

“Hermione?” He called, to let her know he was there.

A minute later, bushy hair piled atop her head in a messy bun, she leaned in from the hall.

“Ron! You made it!” She cried, rushing to him and throwing her arms around him. “I was so worried all day! Harry let me know that you were fine, but still, I wanted to see for myself.”

He hugged her back, several springy curls tickling his nose. “It took longer than expected, but we were pretty lucky this time; Chambers might be crafty, but he has lousy aim. Did you say you saw Harry? I didn't see him back at the Ministry, which was strange.”

Hermione pulled back, but kept her arms loosely around his waist. “That’s because poor Harry got saddled with going back to the cottage with a couple of others for the night, to watch it in case anyone else shows up.”

Ron grimaced; they were pretty sure Chambers was working alone, so Harry had a long, boring, and unenviable night ahead of him. “Poor Harry is right. Glad I managed to avoid that detail.”

“On top of being out there all day, risking life and limb, they'd better __not__ ask you to stay up all night!” Hermione said indignantly. “You're probably exhausted; come sit down.”

“Are those brownies?” Ron asked, eyeing a plate arranged temptingly on the coffee table. 

“Hm? Oh! Yes, I actually made those for dessert today, but you left before I could offer you any.”

“About today,” he asked, searching her eyes intently, brownies momentarily forgotten, “We’re good, right? I mean, I know we got interrupted there, but was there anything else we needed to sort out?”

Hermione shook her head, leading him to the sofa. “I don't think so. We both pretty much agree that I need to be more upfront with you when your comments start getting hurtful, and that you’ll do your best to keep from doing it at all when you can. That’s about all we can do while we try to figure out what makes you do it in the first place.”

He stopped her before they sat down, raising a hand to run along her cheek. “And you know that I’m serious about that, right? You know I don't--I don't want things to be a cycle of me fucking up and saying sorry, with nothing ever changing.”

She rested her hand atop his, leaning her cheek into it slightly. “I know; I believe you. Believe _ _in__ you. We’ll get through this.”

They stood like that for a few moments, enjoying the contact, before finally sitting down on the sofa.

“Here,” Hermione said, picking up the plate and offering it to him, “I know it’s not actually nutritious, especially after the day you had, but have a brownie.”

“Trust me, this is perfect--although I warn you now, if you want one, you'd better grab it now.”

With an amused smile, she just handed him the plate, shaking her head. “Just pause long enough to let me know how they are, since I had to make a few adjustments.”

Ron bit in, and closed his eyes. “They’re perfect,” he moaned. “Better than the cheap pub snacks I was likely to get tonight.”

“What? What pub?” Hermione asked, confused.

He swallowed, and answered before taking another bite, “Oh, I was asked to join everyone at the pub tonight to celebrate--you were too--but I said no, since I already said I was coming over.”

“I'm sorry,” Hermione said, half rising. “I didn't realize--if you want to go out, I could go get ready?”

He shook his head. “Nah, not really. I think I’d rather introduce you to everyone when there’s an actual chance that they’ll remember it the next day,” he said dryly. Plus, Harry isn't even going to be there, and it’s not like I'm really all that close with anyone else.”

“Well, if you're sure....” Hermione said, slowly sitting back down. “Then why don't you tell me what happened today? I didn't get any details.”

While Ron hadn't totally hated the idea of going out with the others to the pub, he found himself settling back happily against the sofa. He had a quiet flat, the undivided attention of his brilliant girlfriend, and a plate of moist, chocolatey goodness. What more could he want?

As he regaled her with the tale of his afternoon, he was blissfully unaware of a note being stealthily attached to his door......

 

 

 

 

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

**A.N. Made it on time! This has been a busy summer for me; I’ve made a huge effort to take more control of my health, both mental and physical. And while I’m pushing myself harder than my doctors have recommended, I feel Like it’s making a difference. This has cut into my writing time a bit, but I think the overall results in my life are worth it--and I still managed to post on time, so it’s not too bad!**

**Story Notes: A lot of you were worried about the letter, and some are worried about it detracting from the main focus of this story, or just being used to create drama. Trust me, I am NOT a fan of pointless drama! There is a very deliberate reason I’ve included this aspect, and it will tie up with the main plot in the future; it’s not superfluous material. Others might be a little concerned that every bit of the fic isn’t devoted to Ron’s sessions and recovery, but that too, is deliberate. Not every moment of your life will be focused on that; life still happens around you, and you have to move with it. Things at work change. Loved ones get sick, or die, or new additions are made. Not all of it relates to your recovery, but it’s still important, because it’s yours, and needs to be experienced.**

**Also, don’t be surprised if some time passes that isn’t heavily detailed; obviously nothing of major importance will be skipped, but it would get pretty boring if every session was covered--especially since as a lot of you know, they can get pretty repetitive! And for poor Ron, who’s not fully comfortable just yet, that’ll be the case. Some people can go right in and be straightforward. Others, like a shark, have to circle it a few times....**

 

 

Ron arrived in his flat with a gormless grin and mussed hair, his eyes glassy from a highly enjoyable snogging session on Hermione’s sofa. It had been a strictly hands-above-the-clothes affair, but no less intense for all that. And, heavens be praised, he was finally blessed with that long absent stirring within his trousers. Surprised and excited, he’d nearly made like a kangaroo and checked to see for himself, but a shred of decency, and the fact that his lips were firmly pressed to Hermione’s, stopped him. He wasn't sure she had noticed, but he had left shortly after to keep her from being uncomfortable, since he didn't want her to think he was pushing for anything. But now that he was home alone.....

“Hello hardness my old friend,” he sang in an off key parody of a song he’d heard Hermione’s mother sing, making his way to the bathroom. “I’ve come to stroke one off again.”

A satisfying time later, he stepped out of the bathroom, not bothering to do up his fly, since he intended to head straight for bed. He took two steps, and then realized, with a groan, that he hadn't checked the flat when he got home.

“Brilliant, Weasley. Constant vigilance, unless your cock is involved. You're lucky you didn't die mid-wank.”

Oh well, it was better late than never. Zipping himself back up, he pulled his wand, and methodically went over the place. The inside was clear, and it didn't seem like the windows or Floo had been tampered with. All he had to do was check the front door, and he could get some sleep. He pulled it open, prepared to shut it again in the same motion, and his eyes caught a glimpse of white. Ignoring protocol, he snatched the envelope off the door, tore it open, and read the contents.

_‘Keeping your guard up, old boy? Not that it will do any good.’_

A wave of anger crashed over him, and he spun to the side, slamming his fist into the wall.

“Fuck! Fuck, fuck, _fuck!”_ He bellowed, his hand slamming through the cheap plaster, which he immediately fixed so as not to get chewed out by the landlord.

From above, there came a series of sharp, insistent thunks. 

“Sorry, Mrs. Price,” he managed to yell up to the ancient witch that lived above him.

“Nosey old hag,” he muttered under his breath.

_Thunk!_

He winced, but said nothing. Closing his door, he stopped back inside, throwing the letter onto his desk in disgust. It was the same as last time, and Ron doubted they’d have any more luck getting anything off this one than they had with the other. Plus, most of the department was out celebrating tonight, and he wasn't in the mood to deal with it. He’d take it into Selby tomorrow.

He’d made it to his room, and dropped down to sit on the edge of the bed, raising his hands to rub at his throbbing temples. He did _not_ need this right now; while he still didn't believe it was anything serious, it was just another thing on his plate while he was trying to get himself together. It was going to upset Hermione, and Harry, and probably his family. And really, even though he wasn't afraid, his blood boiled at the thought of Pethwick out there somewhere, sporting a smarmy grin because he thought he’d put one over on him. 

He fell back against the bed, his mind working overtime, and didn't notice he was drifting off, his thoughts melting into dreams of giving Pethwick a sound thrashing.

 

 

Bright and early, Ron strode into Hitchen’s waiting room, not even bothering to glance at the receptionist. He went straight into the office, clearly startling Hitchens, who looked only mildly better than he had the last time Ron had seen him.

“Good, morning,” he said slowly, with a raised eyebrow. “Won't you come in?”

Ron did just that, ignoring the fact that he had rudely barged in. Throwing himself into the chair, he levelled a glare across the desk. “I got another one of those letters last night,” he said brusquely.

Hitchens became more alert. “Really? I don't suppose this one gave any more clues than the last?”

“Not a damned one,” Ron agreed. “Well, technically it hasn't been fully tested yet, but I already know they won't find anything. He’s being awfully slick, but then again I didn't expect him to be caught until he ups his game.”

“Hm. I was hoping that wouldn't be the case, but I suspect you're right. I'm sure it was very distressing; is that why you arrived so.....energetically?”

Ron gave a heavy puff of air, which fluttered some papers on the desk. “No, I didn't get upset about it--well, I mean, I was mad, who wouldn't be? But I didn't lose control over it. _That’s_ why I'm here.”

Hitchens cocked his head. “I'm afraid I don't follow.”

“What if I had gotten upset?” Ron leaned forward, he jaw thrust out. “What if it _had_ sent me into a right panic? How the hell is all that pixie dust about describing my surroundings going to actually help?”

“I don't suppose you read the material I gave you?” Hitchens narrowed his eyes slightly. _“Thoroughly?”_

At that, Ron squirmed in his seat a bit, dropping his eyes to mutter, “Not thoroughly, no. Enough to get an idea though.”

“A misinformed one, it seems,” Hitchens sighed. “Ron, I wish it was possible for you to just fill out a form, so that I could definitively know what would help you. Unfortunately it doesn't work that way. Everyone is different, and the same methods don't work the exact same way on any two people. Some things are going to help, others aren't. Some things will only start to help if you consistently work at it. I'm afraid a lot of it is trial and error.”

Ron slumped a bit, suddenly feeling bad. He’d known going into it that there was no hard and fast cure--Hitchens had never promised that, but here he was, trying to act like things should be solved as easily as flicking a wand.

“I know. I didn't mean to....I'm just really, really frustrated, I guess. It’s hard for me to put a lot of faith in it when I don't really understand it.”

Hitchens nodded. “Believe me, you aren't the only one; to tell the truth, even I find it hard, sometimes. Some of it sounds completely mental, doesn't it? But the thing is, the human mind itself is a strange thing. Even with all the progress we’ve made, we still don't fully understand what makes it tick, much less the nearly infinite personal variations.” 

“I get that. Sort of, at least. I just.....wish I understood the rest of it,” he said, all of his earlier anger having evaporated. “My brother says I pretty much just need to give everything a few tries, and play around with things and see if a different take on it works for me before giving up.”

“That’s very sound advice.”

“From the brother least likely to give it,” Ron snorted.

“I don't blame you for being sceptical; there are many so called ‘cures’ out there that are nothing more than bunk. But if you don't approach this with at least a mind open to possibilities, it will make things much, much harder. Some things don't work because they simply don't work, but others don't work because we’ve already decided that they won't. It’s a bit of a self fulfilling prophecy.”

“Sort of like when you think you won't be good at something, so without realizing it you don't put as much effort in, or you give up before you can even learn enough to get good or not,” Ron said, thinking of several instances when he was younger.

“Exactly. And, of course, as I’ve said before, the more I’m able to learn about you specifically, the more I’ll be able to help you tailor these things to you. Speaking of which, I don't suppose you've had a chance to discuss things with your friends, like we talked about?”

At that, Ron sat up straighter, pleased to prove him wrong. “I did, actually. And both seem to think it’s a good idea.”

Hitchens brightened visibly, and clapped his hands together. “Excellent! Does having that permission mean you're willing to talk about that particular subject?”

Now Ron wished he had lied; at the very thought of it, he felt himself shrink away, parts of his mind closing off very firmly. “Um, well, not exactly.....”

“I understand,” Hitchens soothed. We’ll get there at your own pace--just the fact that you've asked is progress. Still, it’s probably a difficult subject to jump into, so at our next appointment, I’d like to start with something you might find a bit easier.”

Ron relaxed, spreading his slightly sweating hands across his trousers. “What’s that, then?”

Hitchens gave a wry smile and drawled, “Your family.”

 

 

Once he had fled Hitchen’s office before the man could think of anything worse, Ron made a beeline for Selby, grunting distractedly at anyone who said hello. Harry, sensing that something was up, hopped out of his seat and joined him, not bothering to ask questions as Ron knocked on the door before striding right in. 

Selby looked up, his eyebrows bunched in irritation. “I suppose you have a good reason for barging in here?”

In answer, Ron reached into the pocket of his uniform and pulled out the letter, tossing it onto the desk. 

Selby swore under his breath. “Another one? When?”

“Last night,” Ron growled. I was out pretty late, and it was there when I got back. Same as the last one. The bastard’s trying to set me off.”

“Hmn. I doubt we’ll get anything useful off of this one, but it needs to be tested anyway. Hold on.”

Ron and Harry waited while Selby took the letter and left them alone in his office.

“Why didn't you bring it in last night?” Harry asked.

Ron shrugged. “For one, I knew most of the department would be out celebrating. For another, I know it won't do any good.”

“And?” Harry asked, knowing that there was something else.

“And if Pethwick is keeping an eye out, either himself or through someone else, I didn't want to look too bothered by it. Imagine what he’ll think if it looks like I don't think it’s serious enough to make a special trip for! It’ll eat him alive.”

Harry shook his head. “It could also piss him off so much that he takes things further. I know you want to lure him out, but be careful, yeah?”

“I know, I know. I won't be stupid about it.”

“Well,” Selby said briskly, coming back in and shutting the door with a snap, “I've sent it for testing. Made sure word got around the office, too, just in case someone is passing info to our little friend. I'm sure people will want to talk to you about it, so take note of anyone who seems to be taking too keen of an interest.”

“Yessir. That’s what I was hoping for.” 

“On a related note,” Selby added, sitting back down at his desk,” both of you may be called on as witnesses during his trial. Although from what I’ve seen so far, we already have enough to discharge him.”

“But with the connections he has, you probably need all you can get to hammer the point home,” Harry observed. “He might have connections, but with the way things are in the Ministry right now, I don't think anyone would risk their reputations for him if practically the entire department says he’s a risk. If one of his cock-ups happened during a case, and it got news coverage....”

“Anyone who pushed to keep him in place would have their arse hanging out in the air,” Ron finished. 

“That they would. Which is why even though this looks like a done deal, we’re making sure to cover every angle. And, of course, if we’re able to link him to these threats before then.....well, that would help, obviously.”

“Obviously. Doubt we’ll be that lucky, but I’ll do my best to watch out for anything that might be a lead.”

“Do that, but don't charge ahead--and don't put yourself at unnecessary risk,” Selby warned. “And I'm sure you're going to turn me down, but if you'd like an Auror or two on discreet guard duty.....”

Ron was already shaking his head. “I don't think the situation warrants it yet, and besides, I'm sure it would leak out somehow. Although,” he added thoughtfully, “I might need to take you up on that for an hour or so this afternoon.”

“And why is that?” Selby asked, while Harry nodded in understanding.

“Because I still have to tell Hermione about this, and she’s going to go _spare.”_

 

 

“I am going to be calm and rational about this,” Hermione said through tightly grit teeth, The snapped quill between her fingers belying her words.

Out of the corner of his eye, Ron saw Harry surreptitiously slide Hermione’s wand out of her immediate reach, in what Ron considered a wise move.

“Glad to hear it,” he said, keeping his tone neutral, although he couldn't help his eyes darting to the quill.

With a frustrated sigh, Hermione let the pieces drop to the desk. “Alright, I’ll _attempt_ to be calm and rational. Logically, I know that nothing has really changed, and the likelihood of actual violence is slim, and it’s being handled as well as things like this can be.....”

“But?” Harry prompted, taking a bite of chicken, and frowning at the taste.

“But emotionally, I just want Ron to take an extended vacation, preferably on another continent, until all this can be wrapped up.”

“Only if you'll come with me,” Ron said, trying to keep a straight face; the idea of the two of them lying on a beach somewhere with a couple of those Muggle tropical drinks, while they let everyone else handle the hard stuff, was both appealing and ludicrous. 

Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. “You know, if I thought you would actually do it, I’d start making the travel arrangements.”

“What, and leave me behind?” Harry asked, faking a look of hurt. “You'd leave me here to figure it all out for myself?”

“Sometimes mums and dads, even though they love their kids, need some alone time, Harry,” Ron smirked, ducking the balled up napkin that Harry lobbed at him.

“No, of course we wouldn't,” Hermione said, rubbing at the point between her eyes where the small wrinkle formed whenever she was worried or upset. “Still, it was a nice thought. But I doubt either of us could stand to be away and not know what was going on.”

“I just want to be there when they nail him, mostly,” Ron admitted. It wasn't like he was able to take the lead on this, although he’d be lying if he said he wasn't going to poke is nose in as much as he could; might as well, it being so long and all.

“Has anyone even _seen_ him since he’s been suspended?” Hermione asked.

“Not many, since he seems to run with a....more monied crowd. He’s not someone you'd be likely to run into having a pint at the Leaky.”

“Oh no, he’s much too uppah crust for that sort of thing, don't you know,” Ron said, affecting a posh accent. “To be honest I’m still confused as hell why he ever joined the department in the first place. The pay isn't all that great for the first few years, the hours are shite, and a surprisingly large number of people either hate you, or think you should jump every time they snap their fingers.”

“Some people still see it as a glamorous job,” Hermione pointed out. “Especially with the overhaul it went through after the war, some high profile, dangerous missions, and good coverage from the press after each of those successes.”

Ron and Harry looked at each other and snorted.

“Did you feel glamorous during that two week stakeout back in November, when we were freezing our bloody bollocks off?” Harry asked.

“Oh, yeah. Practically felt like I was having tea with the sodding Muggle queen.”

“Anything is glamorous to people that don't actually have to live it,” Hermione pointed out. “But getting back on track, if no one has really seen Pethwick, has anyone talked to the friends he had in your department?”

 _“Did_ he have friends?” Ron asked, trying without much success to wrap his head around the idea.

“Not as such,” Harry replied. “I think there were a couple of people who didn't hate him, though. I'm not sure if he had something on them, or if it was another case of not wanting to get on the wrong side of anyone important he was connected too, though.”

“I guess we should find out,” Ron sighed, not looking forward to it. “Not really sure how to do that casually, though.” 

“Well, there’s going to be a quick game of Quidditch after work today--not a full match, but not serious as practice, either. We might be able to pick up something there, if you’re up for it.”

“Sure, might as well.” He turned to Hermione. “Mind if I drop by yours, after?”

Hermione blushed slightly, as if she was remembering the night before, and nodded. “Of course; aside from finishing up a report, I don't have any plans.”

“By the way, I got here early today and thought I saw you on your way to Hitchens’ office, unless it was someone else,” Harry said, with the studied casualness that Ron recognized from back in the day when he or Hermione were trying to draw Harry out.

The tables had turned.

He also knew there was no way that Harry could’ve seen him without him realizing it--he was always very careful about making sure no one was around when he went, and that early in the morning, the hallways were pretty dead. Harry was probably worried about him, thinking he might’ve had a bad spell after seeing that letter.

“Yeah, that was me,” he said, seeing no point in denying it. “I thought I’d keep him up on the whole letter business, and figured I’d talk to him about those coping exercises he wanted me to do.”

“Did you tell him you weren't going to?” Hermione asked.

Ron leaned forward, bracing his elbows on her desk. “I wanted to, but after hearing what he had to say, and after talking it over with George last night, I decided I’d at least try. I still think it sounds absolutely mental, but both of them pretty much hammered it into me that nothing will work if I'm not at least open to it, so.....”

“That’s wonderful, Ron!” Hermione beamed at him. “And you know Harry and I are still willing to help.”

“I'm probably gonna need it, so thanks,” he said, giving her a slight smile.

“Is that all he’s wanting you to do for now?” Harry asked, absently vanishing his trash.

With a small Groan, Ron ducked his head and ran his fingers through his hair, feeling it crackle with static but not caring. He barked a laugh. “I wish, mate. I reckon I should've just kept my mouth shut and dealt with that, but he’s made it pretty clear that he can't help me much until I start opening up.”

“Oh. _Oh!_ So you're going to talk about.....what you said the other day?” Hermione asked, with a sympathetic look; she knew he didn't really like talking about that very much.

“No. I know I'll have to eventually, I guess, but I'm just....not quite there yet, you know? Is that bad of me?”

Harry and Hermione shared a look.

“Ron, you don't exactly talk about that a lot with us, and we’re your best friends,” Harry said.

“And Hitchens is next thing to a stranger, so I don't think it’s unusual that you're not ready to talk about such a painful subject with him right away. Maybe if you talked about other things first, and built up to it?”

He gave a thin smile. “He had the same idea. So, we’re starting with my family. Childhood memories. All of that embarrassing stuff. I just hope he isn't like some of those Muggle mind healers I’ve heard about that try to convince you that you hate your mum, or something.”

“Oh, don't worry too much; he might be of the opposite school that thinks you want to kill your dad and marry your mum.”

At Ron’s horrified look, Hermione hissed, “Harry James Potter, don't you scare him! You know very well that both of those are gross exaggerations and usually only used in jokes anymore.” She looked over at Ron, her scowl melting away. “Ron, it’ll be fine, really. I think it’s a good place to start. People talk about those things all the time, but he’ll still be getting to know who you are, and you’ll get used to opening up to him.”

“Eh. Maybe. It just feels weird, blathering on and on about that sort of thing. Having all that.....attention focused on you. But I guess it couldn't hurt anything,” he said, although he wasn't sure how much he believed that.

“At least it’ll be spread out. I'm sure he won't expect your life history in one go,” Harry said.

“Well, I just hope he isn't expecting anything exciting; he’s mainly in for a long nap--I’ll probably sound like old Binns. At least he isn't pressing me too hard over the other, although I know that’s where he seems to think my....problems stem from.”

“On the other hand, at least he actually wants to listen to you, and make sure of that, before rushing to a conclusion that might be wrong,” Hermione said, using her napkin to dab a speck of salad dressing from the corner of her mouth.

“There’s that. Harry, you about ready to go? We’re supposed to be sitting in on the interrogation this afternoon.”

“Are you going to be doing any of it yourselves?” Hermione asked, not blinking an eye at the abrupt change in subject.

Harry scraped his chair against the floor as he stood. “If we’re lucky, we might get a crack. I hope so, since we could use the practice.”

Ron stood as well, and went around the desk to lean over to kiss Hermione on the temple. “Harry needs the practice, but don't worry, I’ll show him how it’s done,” He winked down at her, causing her to laugh. “See you tonight.”

He stayed still long enough for her to peck his jaw, and then followed Harry out, making their way to the interrogation rooms.

 

 

Several long, frustrating hours later, Ron was more than ready to clock out for the day. In spite of what was depicted in radio programs, magazine serials, and even Muggle films, Questioning suspects wasn't a job fraught with excitement. In fact, most of the time, it was like chipping away at a brick with a plastic toothpick, and just about as rewarding. And bricks, thought Ron glumly, didn't have slick, smarmy lawyers around to block your every jab. The only small consolation in this case was that there was a stack of evidence taller than he was, so questioning was mostly a formality--and practice so that they weren't rusty when a trickier one cropped up.

“You still up for a game?” Harry asked as they left the office, staying close to the wall so they weren't trampled in the mad rush of the masses to get home.

Ron had almost forgotten about that; truth to tell, he was feeling more than a bit tired, and wouldn't mind going home for a quick bite and kip before heading for Hermione’s. On the other hand, if this could bring him a step closer to squashing the Pethwick problem.....

“Yeah, I’m ready. Where exactly is it?” He asked, knowing that there was a communal Ministry pitch, but had a hazy memory that the departments got to use it on a rotating basis.

“We set up a smaller pitch on the training field. First, though, we should probably change--save a little wear on the uniforms,” Harry said, veering off in the direction of the locker room.

That meant changing into the Muggle looking tracksuits the department had recently adopted since they had discovered it reduced training accidents stemming from the usual robes getting caught on something, or caught on fire. Ron found them easier to move in, although on the job, he liked the added protection and storage that the robes provided. 

A few of the others were already changing when they got there, and paused in surprise as Ron joined them. 

“You playing today, Weasley?” Asked an Auror who was nearly as tall as Ron, although he had rounded shoulders and surprisingly small feet. Both features were usually forgotten, eclipsed by the large boil that seemed to move from point to point all over his face. 

“If there’s a spo--position open,” Ron said, opening his locker and digging out his clothes.

“O’Keefe couldn't make it today, so if you could take Keeper, that would be brilliant,” Daniels said. “Although if you prefer Chaser, I think we could switch people around.”

“Keeper’s perfect for Ron--that’s the position he played at school,” Harry said, already in his trousers and struggling into the arms of his jumper.

“Really? Then you should think of joining the team--we don't have a really dedicated Keeper, and no one really likes having to rotate,” Martin said, walking up to them.

Ron yanked his shirt over his head, then paused in surprise. Martin had already changed, and was holding a Beater bat.

“You're a Beater?” He asked, unable to picture affable, easy going Martin in that position. 

Harry cackled. “Don't let that innocent face fool you--once he’s up in the air, he’s a terror!”

Martin twirled the bat, an unnervingly twin-like smirk on his face.

“Come on you lot, or we’ll never get a decent game in!”

Everyone started moving a bit faster, heeding the bellow from outside. Harry inched over to Ron casually, so no one would notice him whispering. 

“We’re in luck; the two we need to focus on showed up.”

Ron followed Harry’s subtle nod, he watched as Colin Featherstone--one of _the_ Featherstones, people always seemed to feel the need to add--laced up his trainers, his wide brow furrowed in concentration, and his chin surprisingly strong in spite of all the inbreeding that had reputedly occurred over the generations, although if rumor was accurate, there had been a few illicit injections of new blood here and there. Featherstone looked like he would have the brains of a stump and the temper of a troll, but he’d always come across as quiet and laidback. Ron thought he remembered a time or two when he’d stepped in to mediate fights during training. All in all, not someone he would’ve imagined running with Pethwick.

Harry nudged him, and subtly pointed to the corner of the room, where Francis--poor bastard--Hurst was folding his trousers neatly before putting them in the locker. Not for the first time, Ron noted that he looked like a smaller, more sour version of Harry. He had a head shaped like an apple, and a thin, perpetually downturned mouth. Ron was a little surprised to hear that he’d been anything like close to Pethwick, since Hurst had an almost Percy-like devotion to rules and regulations, and didn't seem to have much time for those that didn't. And if anything, Hurst was more antisocial than Ron had ever been, which was saying something. 

“So what do we do? We can't be too blunt, or Selby’ll string us up by our bollocks,” Ron said, making sure the door to his locker blocked him from view.

“I know, I know. We can't make it look like we’re fishing. I figure our best bet is to stay as close as we can, especially after the game--give them a chance to say something. If worst comes to worst, we might have to let them overhear us talking about it.”

Ron grunted. He hoped it wouldn't come to that; while they were a sight better than, say, a couple of third years sneaking off on a forbidden Hogwarts visit, he didn't want to risk them seeing through it. 

Realizing they were the only ones still inside, they hustled out to where everyone else stood, dividing up for teams. He and Harry were split up, which worked out since Featherstone and Hurst were on opposite teams as well. Ron played with the idea of trying to stick close to Featherstone to see if he could pick up anything in the usual chatter that marked a casual game, but soon realized that his position of Keeper didn't really lend itself to that. As he rose on his broom to take his place in front of the hoops, there was a few moments were he felt far away from everyone--not just the ones on the ground. What was he doing? He didn't really belong here. Everyone was laughing and joking, but he felt no urge to join in. He felt disconnected, as if he--or the rest of them--wasn't really there at all. He should just go home and--

“Thanks for joining us today,” Martin said, coming up to hover a few feet away. “We don't have anyone who really enjoys being Keeper, and without O’Keefe, I’m not sure we could’ve gotten one for each team.”

Ron jerked on his broom, coming back into the here and now to try to focus on what Martin had said. 

“Oh. Sure, no problem,” he said, realizing he’d be letting people down if he left now. Over Martin’s shoulder, he saw Harry talking with Hurst, and remembered what he was actually there for, and the effort Harry was putting in for him. 

“Right, looks like we’re getting ready to start. See you later!” 

Martin waved his bat at him and sped off, and Ron used his legs to get a tighter grip on his broom. Okay, he’d do this properly. He might not feel like it, but an hour or so wouldn't kill him, and he might get to talk to Featherstone if they took a break.

Only intending to put enough effort into the game for no one to be disappointed, he was quickly drawn in without realizing it, his eyes following the Quaffle, lunging from side to side to guard the hoops. It wasn't until the game was called that he noticed that his voice was raised with the others, calling out good natured taunts and insults, completely unaware that time had passed so fast. 

He touched down next to Harry, trying to be unobtrusive as he looked around for Featherstone and Hurst. While they weren't talking to each other, both seemed fairly close. Should he and Harry stage a conversation about the letters after all? It was a risk, but without risks they weren't going to get anywhere. He just wanted this _over_ with, so he could focus on other things, more _important_ thi--

“Ron! I heard you got another one of those weird letters--is it true?” Martin asked, falling into step beside him.

Ron darted a quick look at Harry; either this was a stroke of luck, or Martin ran with a more sordid crowd than they had thought. Ron leaned toward the former. Although, given they way he’d used that Beater’s bat earlier......Nah. No time to think of that, anyway, since the question had drawn the interest of those still nearby, including Featherstone and Hurst. 

“I did, actually. I reckon it’s a kid or something, trying to impress their friends, or wanting to feel tough. They’ll probably get tired of it here pretty soon--that might have even been the last one,” he kept his tone nonchalant, hoping he wasn't laying it on too thick.

“You should take it more seriously, Weasley,” Hurst piped up, frowning at him over his glasses. “People have carried out threats against Aurors before. We’re pretty good at making enemies in our line of work.”

“Sure, but most of them have an actual reason--or think they do--or at least make a real threat. This just seems like someone who doesn't know what they’re doing, just randomly trying to shake me up. All in all, I’m not too worried.”

Hurst shrugged. “Well, you were warned,” he said, his tone indicating he washed his hands of the matter. 

Featherstone said nothing, jaw tense, his eyes fixed firmly on the ground in front of them, as if he needed every bit of concentration to put one foot in front of the other.

Ron risked a look at Harry, but his friend didn't give any sign what he thought. Which was probably along the same lines as him; either of the other two men could be feeding Pethwick information, or could be completely innocent. Still, even if he couldn't tell one way or another, if things were getting back to Pethwick, then that jab he’d just delivered would leave a painful bruise on his ego, and hopefully his anger over the slight would cause him to make a mistake.

“Just be careful, alright?” Martin said, his face troubled. “Even a prank can get out of hand and turn dangerous.”

Ron clapped him on the shoulder. “Trust me, I know; don't forget who my older brothers were. That kind of thing is old hat.”

The subject drifted, as attention began to wane, and Ron decided that was probably for the best. Never good to overbait the trap. As people began to change clothes or head to the showers, he sidled over to Harry.

“You get anything out there?” He muttered.

Harry shook his head. “No. There didn't seem to be a good way to bring it up, so all I heard was the same thing you did, just now. Think either one of ‘em will pass it on?”

Ron shrugged. “If we’re lucky. Still, it’s more of a chance than we’ve had before, so at least the evening wasn't a complete loss.”

“Oh, please,” Harry snorted. “You were loving it out there, don't try to tell me you weren't! That smug grin every time you blocked a shot....”

He had to smile at that; he hadn't done half bad, especially considering how out of practice he was compared to everyone else.

“That one! Come on, admit it; you had fun.” 

“Fine, if it makes you feel good to hear you were right, I had more fun than I thought I would. Happy?”

“Ecstatic. Are you still going over to Hermione’s?”

Ron reached into his locker and grabbed his shower kit. “After I wash off. I don't wanna go over smelling like something Hagrid would keep as a pet.”

“You charmer, you. Have a good night, and.....be sure to check your flat when you get in.”

He gave Harry a sharp look at that; how had he known he'd forgotten to last night?

“What?”

“You know, in case your _friend_ moves fast and acts tonight,” Harry said, looking around to make sure they weren't overheard.

“Oh. Yeah. Right.” Ron relaxed; Harry didn't know. “I’ll be careful.”

Once he’d assured Harry, Ron went in and took a quick shower, barely taking the time to dry before Apparating over to Hermione’s. Before he could call out to let her know he was there, she staggered in from the kitchen, a glass of water clutched in her hand. Her face was flushed, her hair frizzed out in all directions, and her clothes were askew.

“Hermione? What the hell happened--do you need to go to Mungo’s?” He asked in alarm, watching as she collapsed onto the sofa.

She raised the glass to her lips, but paused long enough to answer, “No. Sorry, just a tick.”

He waited as she chugged the glass, then leaned back with a sigh.

“Sorry about that. No, I’m fine. I just got finished giving Crookshanks his hairball treatment, and he doesn't usually take it very well.”

He bit down on his lip to keep from laughing. “I can tell--either that, or you're more out of shape than I would have guessed!”

Hermione glared at him. “Oh, shut up! You can see if you can do any better with him next time, and then we’ll talk!”

“I already know I’d be in much worse shape, so we might as well skip it,” Ron laughed, sitting down next to her. “On the bright side, it looks like you had a more interesting evening than I did.”

Hermione looked at her empty glass, then used her wand to refill it. “So you and Harry didn't find out anything?”

“Not really. Neither one obliged us by twirling a long, sinister mustache and cackling, but at least we were able to drop a few comments that should irritate Pethwick into making a mistake if they get back to him.”

Hermione frowned, and set her water on the table. “I'm not sure if I like the sound of that. I understand the logic behind it,” she added quickly, seeing him opening his mouth, “I just wish the risk was a bit more.....quantifiable, I suppose. I mean, there’s no telling if he’ll stay in the petty, almost juvenile vein, or if he’ll leap straight to homicidal.”

“I really don't think we have to worry about that,” he tried to reassure her, wishing this would go away so she wouldn't have to worry. “The thing about him is he needs an audience. He has to have someone seeing how clever he is. So whatever he does, it’s bound to draw attention, and he’s honestly not subtle enough to get very far without tipping his hand.”

“I hope you're right. I suppose waiting is the worst part.”

Ron shifted on the sofa, deciding it was time to change the subject.

“What I'm more worried about is my next session. What am I supposed to say? ‘On March the first, 1980, I came into this world....’ sounds a bit pants, doesn't it?”

Hermione’s lips twitched up in a smile. “I don't think it’s meant to be quite that formal--or extensive. 

“Then what? ‘My family annoys the hell out of me sometimes, but I love them. My childhood had hard moments but it was better than most.’ That pretty much covers it, doesn't it?”

“Yeeeeessss, technically, but I believe he’s going to need a bit more detail than that. Honestly, I don't think it’ll be that hard once you actually start. I’m sure he’ll ask a few questions to get you going, so it won't be like a recitation.”

“Probably. I guess.....I guess I'm just feeling guilty, since I know that this isn't about my real problem,” he confessed, in a burst of honesty.

“Why do you feel guilty?” Hermione asked, turning to face him and tucking her legs up underneath herself.

He shrugged as if it should be obvious. “Because I know what I need to talk about, but I just--I can't, yet, like I’ve said. Every time I even think about it, it’s like a door in my head swings shut and locks, and even I can't get through. I know I'm putting it off, and it feels like I'm wasting my time and his--especially since he probably has patients that could use his time more.”

“Ron,” Hermione said seriously, leaning forward to gently place her hands on his jaw to look in his eyes. “Harry and I meant it when we said there was nothing wrong with not being able to open up to him right away. Everyone has a different pace that they have to get through something like this. When....” she swallowed hard, “When Dad died, I didn't want to talk about it with people. Even people I was close to. I'm getting better about that, but I’ve always needed to be able to process things in my own head first before I take it to others. Some people think that’s strange, or that something’s wrong with me for not wanting to discuss it in minute detail with anyone who will listen, but that’s just what works best for me. And you're doing what works best for _you.”_

Ron closed his eyes for a minute, placing his hands over hers before looking at her again. “Are you sure? I don't know. It feels like I'm sort of running in place, and not actually getting anywhere. I know I need to talk about....that with him, and I will. I just don't know what's wrong with me--why I can't just make myself do it and get it over with!”

“Everyone has to do it at their own pace. Some people don’t fully open up about everything they need to until a couple of years into therapy, so I’ve been told.”

“Merlin, I don't want it to take years! I don't think I can drag my childhood out for that long, for one thing,” he said, trying for a joke.

Hermione smiled. “I don't think it’ll take you that long. You just need to feel comfortable. If you do it too fast, you might end up upsetting yourself so much that you refuse to go back, so maybe slower is best; it’ll give you time to work on those methods he wants you to try.”

Ron sighed. “I’ll study the material he gave me when I get home,” he droned, like a fifth year promising to revise. “But now, I'd sort of like to forget about all of that for a few hours, at least.”

“Oh really?” Hermione raised her eyebrows. “And just how were you planning on doing that?”

“Maybe a repeat of last night?” He asked, a hopeful gleam in his eyes. “Same rules, of course.”

“Hm.....” she said thoughtfully, running her fingers around his neck until they met behind his head. “I suppose that could be arranged.”

Tomorrow he would go back to dealing with everything else that life was throwing at him. The letters, his worries about therapy, and the day to day hassles of dealing with his job while trying to keep himself under control. 

Tonight he was going to focus on his girlfriend, and the fact that she had a brilliant mouth, even when she was saying nothing at all.


	14. The Heart of the Matter (Forgiveness)

**A.N. So sorry for the wait! As those following me on tumblr know, google decided for some obscure reason that I either wasn’t allowed to edit, or that I wasn’t online. (This seems to be a sporadic thing with them, which gets.....really old.) But now here we are with a chapter that several of you have been waiting for, and it’s sliiiightly longer than the usual ones, but I spared you by waiting to do his second conversation with his siblings in the next chapter. As ever, please keep in mind that I deliberately write the Wizarding variation of therapy slightly ‘off’ from the modern day standards, to keep things more closely in keeping with the pace of progress for that culture. Also, for those who might be irritated by my choices in handling his conversation with his parents, please see the Story Notes at the end of the chapter once you’ve finished. Enjoy, and keep your fingers crossed that Google will cooperate better!**

“.......so I’m not sure there's really anything more to say,” Ron said, as his fingers fiddled with one of the Muggle toys that Hitchens kept on his desk, the gentle ‘thwak, thwak, thwak’ sound of each flat wooden block hitting the next somehow soothing.

He had been coming in for about three weeks now, since Hitchens had wanted him to talk about his childhood. It had been right awkward, at first, hardly knowing where to start, and the words fading away after just a few sentences. Those earlier sessions had mostly been Hitchens asking questions, trying to engage him. It had slowly gotten easier, especially once he’d been given things to keep his hands busy--and to look at when he needed to, when eye contact became too embarrassing, depending on what he was talking about. Hell, maybe even the loneliness had helped, since Hermione had had to go to France for a work conference. Ron had been pretty surprised about that at first, since he figured the higher-ups in her department would jump at the chance to write off a vacation, until she had explained that in this case, participation at long, intense meetings was absolutely mandatory. 

It didn't help that right before she’d left, there’d been a sharp rise in criminal activity--the warm weather seemed to bring the bloody bastards out of hibernation--so they’d hardly had more than a handful of minutes together at a time. They’d managed a couple of Floo calls, but one or both of them had been dead on their feet each time, so that hardly counted. 

“Oh, I'm sure we could go into much more detail, but I think I get the gist of things,” Hitchens said, setting his notes aside and leaning back in his chair.

“Well? What’s the verdict? Are there any deep, dark secrets lurking in my subconscious? And if you actually _do_ tell me that I want to kill my dad and marry my mum, I swear I’ll walk out right now and not look back,” he joked.

Hitchens roared, laughing so hard he choked. “No, I think I can safely say that’s not your problem.”

“Don't suppose I get a discount on these last few sessions, just to hear what I already know?” Ron asked, only half seriously.

“Just a minute, I'm not quite through--you just surprised me a bit.” He flipped through his notes, his lips moving slightly as he nodded to himself, as if sorting out the points he wanted to make.

“From everything you’ve told me, assuming there isn't anything major that you've let out, and accounting for natural distorted memories that comes with aging, and the way children mostly see these things from one point of view....”

Ron grew nervous, the blocks clacking a little faster. 

“I would say that you mostly have the same hangups that would be expected from living with eight other people under one roof. People always seem to think that there’s some ‘perfect’ model of a family, with each member acting and reacting perfectly. Frankly, I've never seen it, and I don't believe it exists--it’s good to strive for, but definitely impossible to fully attain. There will always be personality conflicts, misunderstandings....the way one person intends their words or actions, and the ways three other people can interpret them three separate ways.”

“So you're saying I'm....normal?” Ron asked, hardly daring to believe it.

Hitchens shrugged. “As far as normal goes, which is a broader term than you might think. However, there are a few points that concern me.”

Ron nodded. “Ah. That sounds more like it,” he said with a satisfaction that had any Muggle been present, they would have deemed Eeeyore-like.

“For starters, while there seems to be the normal amount of sibling rivalry, you've made several remarks implying you think your sister is the favorite--or at least, she is in comparison to you.”

Sweat popped up at his hairline, a slight tremor running through his hands as long buried words, hurled at him by the locket, replayed in his head. While the part about Harry and Hermione had been put to rest for good, he’d ignored the other half, telling himself it wasn't important. He gave a jerky shrug.

“Well, she is and all,” he muttered. “S’not a big deal or anything.” 

“It must be, if it’s stuck with you this long. Did your parents say they loved her more? Were they unfair in their treatment between you?”

Irritation at the insinuations boiled up within him. “Of course not! They didn't--it was just.....”

“Just what?” Hitchens prodded.

“It just was!” He exploded. “I mean, my brothers were always making their mark in one way or another, so it wasn't like I was ever really going to stand out anyway, and then Ginny came along--the girl they always wanted--and I sure as hell wasn't that, was I? How can you compete with that?”

“Alright, but how did you _know?”_

“Well--I--it was just always obvious,” Ron spluttered, letting the strip of blocks drop onto the desk.

“Always? So you're saying as far back as you can recall, you've always _known_ they wanted your sister more than you?”

“I.....yeah,” Ron answered, feeling distinctly uncomfortable. There was just something sort of.....well, off about it when put into words. 

Hitchens regarded him for several moments, then leaned forward, his hands folded on the desk. “When we’re very young,” he began, “we take in more than we--and others--realize. But the way we take it in is different than an adult, lacking an adult’s experience. We see things in very limited terms, and, based on our own limited understanding, come to conclusions that may be right, and may be wrong. Which isn't in and of itself a bad thing; unfortunately, since we believe ourselves to be right, we never actually try to verify it, and usually go the rest of our lives believing those early assumptions.”

Ron considered that. Okay, there was sense to it; there had been plenty of things he’d thought of as a kid that, once brought to light, had turned out not to be How Things Worked, several of which would’ve been embarrassing if he hadn't overheard people talking about them and then privately rearranged his thoughts on the matter before trotting them out for all to hear. The whole thing about his parents being disappointed he wasn't a girl? Never brought it up. His parents hadn’t been shy about saying ‘I love you,’ but they’d never said, ‘glad you're a boy, Ron!’ And really, it would've been mental if they had. Who says that? Wouldn't that have just implied they wouldn't love him if he _had_ been a girl?

“You're right, I get it, it was all in my head and I should just forget it,” he said, partially relieved, and partially.....he didn't know what.

“Ron, that's not what I'm saying at all. While it’s a likely and common enough scenario, it’s also possible you just don't remember the specific occasion. But it brings me to the next thing I would like you to do.”

He tensed, his senses telling him there was something of Aragog proportions lurking just beneath the surface. “What’s that?” He asked, the muscles in his legs tensing.

“I want you to talk about this with your parents; share how you feel, and try to determine the cause.”

Ron looked at him as if he had just suggested having a wrestling match with the Giant Squid.

“You want me,” he said slowly, “to go to my parents, and whinge about why they love my sister more than me?” He couldn't even begin to imagine that scenario. 

“No.” Hitchens said, looking uncannily like Mcgonagall whenever a student claimed they couldn't do a spell without even trying first. “I want you to be able to put this behind you, and this is the only way to do it. From everything you've said in here, you love your parents, right?” 

“Of course I do,” Ron muttered, his ears going red at having it said so bluntly.

“And, in spite of this lingering fear, you believe they love you as well?”

He paused. Yes, he did. His parents weren't perfect, and although that nagging doubt he always had about his place in their hearts, he couldn't honestly believe that they outright didn't love him at all.

“Yes.”

“Do you think they want you to continue hurting like this? If you were hurting someone you loved, wouldn't you want to know, so you could change it?”

Did they _want_ to hurt him? His dad, even though he had a temper when someone was being treated unjustly, was really just a big softy. His mum.....well, she was a bit pricklier, and inclined to share her strong opinions whether you asked for them or not, but....he remembered once when he was about five, and she didn't know he was right outside of the kitchen, and she accidentally smacked him in the face with the door. Now, she had cleaned up far worse injuries on him and all the rest of his siblings, so a small bump shouldn't have fazed her, but the fuss she had made! Apologizing all over the place, setting him up with biscuits and cocoa, and even reading him one of his favorite stories right in the middle of the day! No, she might tell you off when you'd done something you shouldn't have (or at least she believed you shouldn't have), but she didn't take pleasure in causing him pain.

And as for wanting to know if he was in the same position....well, that was partly why he was here, wasn't it? He knew he'd treated people pretty badly over the last couple of years--he didn't set out to, sometimes didn't even know he was doing it, but also, admittedly, sometimes knowing and not caring much. He wasn't proud of that, and that wasn't who he wanted to be--wasn't who he was, really--and he was trying to change all that. Hell, he might have done, or still be doing something, that someone hadn't even told him about yet. How could a person fix something they didn't even know about? 

His natural curiosity had kicked in as well. Where had he gotten hold of that idea? Hitchens’ way of putting it--how kids sort of folded things down to fit their own understanding--made more and more sense, especially given what he knew of his parents. Still, as much as he now wanted to get to the bottom of things, he wasn't looking forward to the actual confrontation. 

“So what do I do, then? Just....bring them here? Or go up to them and ask right out, ‘Mum, Dad, do you wish I'd been a girl?’”

“I personally don't think it’s necessary for them to come in at this point, although if you'd feel more comfortable, I suppose we could arrange it that way. As for asking them, I think something a bit more..... _subtle_ would be in order, don't you? If it helps, flip things around; how would you want to be approached if someone was coming to you with a problem they had with you?”

Ron rubbed his forehead. He almost wished he could just go back to telling stories about his childhood; he was about at his daily limit of careful consideration. Okay. How would he want it? For starters, he wouldn't want to do it in front of some stranger. He'd be nervous and defensive if he was dragged into some office, like a naughty schoolboy brought before the headmaster. At the Burrow it was, then. Bursting in and flinging accusations was out, too. He’d always detested it when people accused him of something without listening to his side of it, especially when it came down to something he may or may not have said, or what he had meant by it. So it would need to be casual, and he'd wait to hear what they had to say before deciding if he should be upset or not. 

“Fine,” he said, expelling his breath heavily. “I’ll do it. I just....hope it goes well.”

“If things get to intense for you to deal with, drop the subject and leave, and we’ll work something out--even if it means meeting them at your home or theirs, with me along to mediate,” Hitchens said.

“Oh. Yeah, that’d....I mean, I hope it doesn't come to that, I don't think it will, but....”

“But it’s nice to think you have backup if you need it,” Hitchens smiled.

Ron nodded, relieved. He’d prefer to do this privately, but knowing that someone was waiting in the wings, so to speak, if he needed help was comforting.

“Good! One other thing...”

“Something else?” Ron squawked, thinking that was a bit much, considering!

“I'm afraid so. I also want you--at a different time, of course--to talk with your siblings about this. I want you to get a feel for how they think your parents view them, and who they believe to be the favorite child, or why they might think your parents have less affection for them.”

“I don't think any of them think that!” Ron scoffed, hardly able to imagine Bill or Charlie with his hangups. 

“I think you might be very surprised, Ron. Will you do it?”

Ron shrugged. “I suppose so, although I still can't see why. I think I’ll get things with my parents over with, first.”

“Whichever way you prefer. And you're still practicing the other things, as we discussed?”

Oh, yeah. He’d been supposed to be doing that grounding exercise and other mindfulness malarky......and he had, to an extent. He’d run through it a few times with Harry, but they hadn't found time for it in awhile.

“Yes, I have,” he said anyway, deciding that it wasn't really a lie. More of an....exaggeration. 

“Hm.....” Hitchens said, giving him that Mcgonagall look until he squirmed. “I certainly hope so; I know it might not feel like it’s doing any good, but you'll be glad to have it when you need it.”

“Yessir. Anything else?”

Hitchens looked at his watch. “No, I think that’s it. I'm going to be out of town on business, so you'll have a week and a half to talk to your family. I think that’s plenty of time, don't you? Don't want to overthink it too much, you know.”

“I can do it by then, I'm sure--unless I'm sent out on a mission.”

“Of course, of course. Well then, I’ll send an owl once I return and can get my schedule sorted out.”

Saying goodbye, Ron left the office, wishing, not for the first time, that Hermione was back so that he could talk to her. Harry would have to stand in, he decided, although in this case, he’d have to forego the post conversation snogging that Hermione was so brilliant at.....

 

 

Ron sat back at the table, releasing a gentle burp of appreciation. Was there anything better, he wondered, in the life of a single wizard, than a night of having someone else cook for you?

“Harry, would you mind much if I adopted Kreacher?”

Harry looked up from where he’d been scraping up the last crumbs of his apple tart. “Don't you think Hermione would, you know, kill you?”

Ron rolled his eyes. “I said adopt, not _own!_ He’d be the pointy-eared son of my heart, if not my body.”

Harry choked on his bite. “Thanks for that mental image....you do know that he's older than both of us combined, right?”

“So?” Ron shrugged. “All that means is he's of legal drinking age, and I don't need to worry about having the awkward talk about where little house elves come from. It’s a win-win.”

“Somehow, I don't think Hermione would go for an elf cooking you endless meals, even if he was your son.”

“I know,” he sighed. “But it was a nice dream while it lasted. You'd be more sympathetic if you were forced to cook for yourself all the time.”

“Here I thought you came over for my company, and now....now it turns out you only came for the food!” Harry lamented theatrically, using his wand to send the dishes to the sink.

“Oh, don't be thick. I'm still here, aren't I?” He said, following Harry out of the kitchen, calling back over his shoulder, “Thanks for supper, Kreacher! It was delicious! If you ever get sick of doing for this git, you know where to find me!”

“Thank you for the offer, Master Weasley, but Kreacher is very satisfied with Master Potter,” Kreacher croaked, his voice coming from ahead of where Ron was about to step.

Letting out an undignified yelp, he leaped back, causing both Kreacher and Harry to cackle.

“Still want to adopt him?” Harry asked with an innocent tone as they headed to the library. 

“Oh, sod off,” Ron grumbled, his ears a painful red. He had forgotten Kreacher had a habit of popping up like a creepy kid from a Muggle film.

“So, Harry asked, taking a seat in his armchair and propping his chin on his fist, “What’s on your mind?”

“What? Can't a friend drop by to cage a meal?” Ron asked, dropping in a loose limbed heap on the sofa, the leather creaking under the impact.

“I'd be more concerned if you turned down a free meal. But you've started to say something and stopped at least six times tonight, so I know Kreacher’s delicious cooking didn't lure you over here--at least, not all on its own. So give.”

The problem with old friends, Ron thought, was that they knew you sometimes even better than you knew yourself, but no longer felt they had to be polite about it. 

“I had an appointment today,” he said, letting it hang in the air between them.

“And how did it go?”

Ron fidgeted. He’d come over here to talk about this, but now that the moment had arrived, he wanted nothing more than to make some joke to change the subject, and then get out as soon as he could. But he couldn't. Because he knew there was no way he could just go in cold with his parents without talking it out first with either Harry or Hermione. 

“It went.....alright. Apparently my family is the kind of screwed up that falls into the normal category,” he said, then winced, mentally kicking himself as he remembered Harry’s family.

But Harry just nodded. “That’s not a bad thing, though. Did you not agree, or something? I’d’ve thought you'd be happy about it.”

“I am! I mean, I know every family has a certain amount of issues--like he said, that many people, and the different personalities bang up against each other....well, there’s bound to be fights and hurt feelings at some point or another. And to be honest, I've given my fair share of both. It’s just that....”

He had to swallow a few times, the words threatening to choke him as the room swam in his vision, the shadows briefly forming tree branches before righting themselves again. 

“You remember.....you remember what the locket said?”

“The....yeah, I do, but why--” Harry sat up with a jerk, his face creasing in concern. “You don't still think that me and Hermione--”

“No! No, no, no,” Ron rushed to assure him, not really wanting to relive that even if he _had_ moved passed it. “The, uh, other thing it said.”

Harry scrunched up his face in thought, before his eyes widened. “You mean, about your mum, and Ginny, and.....Ron, you know the locket was lying about everything, right?”

It was hard to meet Harry’s eyes, even after all this time. “I do, yeah. But see, they weren't things that.....he didn't just pick them at random. They’d sort of always been there in the back of my mind. I could usually ignore it, but....well, you know me.”

Harry ran his fingers through his hair, then absently tried, with no success whatsoever, to smooth it back down. “You bury it, but every once and awhile you take it out and worry it around like a dog with a bone, until you upset yourself. Then you either explode, or you bury it again.”

Ron winced. “Painfully accurate. But my point is, after I talked about it with you, and got together with Hermione, I got it out of my system. I never did that with my parents.”

“That's true. I mean, I don't envy you the conversation, but I can see it’s one you need to have.”

“You do, don't you?” Ron asked, suddenly nervous again. “Y-you don't think I'm being stupid about this? Maybe I should just leave it....”

“Ron, if it’s bothered you enough that Hitchens was able to pick up on it, then you need to do it,” Harry said firmly.

“I know. I just....” he stared down at the floor. “I just.....do you think they were? Disappointed, I mean. That I wasn't a girl or something.”

Harry was silent for several minutes, and Ron could tell he was actually thinking it through, rather than just blurting out a protest, which he was grateful for.

“I keep trying to picture it, but I just can't.” Harry finally pronounced. “I've known your family for a long time, and just watching them with you....if it’s there, I don't see it. On the other hand, you obviously feel that way for a reason, so something must’ve happened to put it in your head.”

Harry’s words brought a sense of relief. A large part of him felt guilty even considering his parents could mean something like that, and the fact that Harry didn't dismiss the possibility, or get mad at him for suggesting it, helped him feel like he wasn't completely mental. 

“Hitchens says it’s possible they said or did something to make me think it, but that it also could’ve been something else.”

“What?”

“He said that sometimes kids.....sort of misinterpret things. They see or hear something, and are too young to get all the....I guess you'd say context, and they kind of draw their own conclusions based on what they have experience to understand. Is that making any sense, or did I garble it up too badly?”

Harry looked thoughtful, then nodded. “Before I came to Hogwarts, I had a mate at school who walked in on his parents shagging when he was about four or five. He thought his dad was attacking his mum, and tried to beat him off.”

Ron nodded. “Yeah, like that! Only in that case, the kid made it clear what he thought, and they could fix it right away. Well, except for the mental scarring. But if a kid sees or hears something, but never mentions it...”

“Then they’ll probably go on thinking it and never question it, and will probably even forget why they thought it in the first place.”

“Exactly. And the more I think of it, the more I think that’s what happened. And.....that maybe I shouldn't even bother bring it up.”

Surprisingly, Harry disagreed with him. “No. You deserve to know what it was, Ron. It bothered you for years, and you shouldn't just brush it off. You need to find out what it was, clear the air, and decide if you'll forgive whatever they did to make you think that, so you can move on.”

Ron picked up one of the paisley patterned throw pillows, keeping his eyes on it as he tossed it gently into the air and caught it, repeating the process. “I've already decided that I’ll forgive them,” he admitted.

“Are you sure? Because I know you love them, but that doesn't mean you have to.”

“I know. But I think if it had been real bad, I’d’ve actually remembered it, and I don't even know why it happened yet. Maybe they got frustrated and said it when they were mad--”

“That doesn't make it okay.”

“No, it’d be a fucked up thing to say to a kid,” Ron agreed. “But Harry, I've said some fucked up things without meaning to when I've been mad. Hell, I've said some fucked up things _on purpose_ when I've been mad. To....to people I care about the most. And they-- _you've_ forgiven me. If people hadn't, I don't think I’d’ve ever been able to let go and move past it--I’d’ve given up on ever doing better. I'm not saying I won't be hurt and frustrated, because I will, but.....if they apologize, I’ll forgive them.”

“As long as you're doing it because that’s what you want, and not because you think you have to, that’s great,” Harry said. 

“Don't worry, it is. I want to get it over with, so I think I'm gonna start dropping in at the Burrow every night until I find them alone.”

“Well, I'm supposed to do something romantic with Ginny tomorrow night when she gets back, so I know we won't be there,” Harry offered.

“One down, five more siblings to go,” Ron laughed, then frowned. “Which reminds me, there was something else Hitchens wanted me to do.”

“On top of that?” Harry asked, eyebrows raised in surprise. “He's not pulling the punches, is he? What else do you have to do?”

“He wants me to talk to my brothers and Ginny, about where we all think we fit into the family and stuff, and how we think our parents see us. I told him I didn't think that would do much, seeing as how it’s all pretty obvious, but he seems to think I’ll be surprised.”

Harry, as someone in the unique position of dating his best friend’s sister, gave him a wry smile. “Given the different takes I’ve heard from you and Ginny about the same situations, I'm gonna have to side with Hitchens on this one.”

“Clearly everyone else seems to know something I don't.” He added in a mutter, “So what else is new?”

“Cheer up, Ron,” Harry grinned. “If anything else, it'll be a learning experience.”

“That's sort of what I'm afraid of,” he said dryly, standing up.

“You're not leaving already, are you? I thought we could run through those exercises of yours again--I was just thinking earlier that it had been a while.”

Pushing aside the guilty feeling that told him he shouldn't be neglecting this, he shook his head. “Nah, I think we’ve pretty much done what we can do with that--besides, I'm feeling a little drained after that session today, and if I get to talk to my parents tomorrow, I'm going to need some rest.”

Harry looked as if he was going to say something, changed his mind, and said instead, “Alright, you probably should get some sleep. At least we only work a half day tomorrow.”

Ron left soon after, feeling bad that he hadn't gone along with Harry’s suggestion, but not bad enough to change his mind. After all, he told himself, he was doing all of the important stuff, wasn't he? It wasn't like he was avoiding the harder, more potentially painful aspects of his therapy. And really, it was probably better that he saved his mental energy for all of that, wasn't it? Sure, it would be one thing if it was something that actually helped, but since it was mostly nonsense.....at, least, he amended, trying to be fair, it was nonsense for him. It might be well and good for others, but his time and effort would be better spent moving on to something else. He’d just.....wait for others to realize that, and not upset them by fighting against it. 

Having happily justified his choices, at least to himself for the time being, he sighed as his mind turned to another woe. He missed Hermione. Badly. Oh, he was doing fine, and he was able to handle things without her, and to get help from Harry and others when he felt like he needed it. He just....didn't want to. Or, at least, didn't want to _have_ to. He missed seeing her at lunch, and spending the evenings at one of their flats. He missed talking with her, and getting her opinion. Even when he knew exactly what she would say, somehow, he knew he'd feel better actually hearing it. It just drove home the point (not that he’d ever been in any real doubt), that although he could function without her, life was better with her in it. Actively in it. At least she would be home in a few days, and things could go back to normal. Maybe by then, he’d be able to tell her how things went with his family. 

With that thought, he crawled into bed, a nervous ache of anticipated dread tightening his chest, and he gave a shudder. He really, really hoped he could talk to them before he had to endure nightmares about it.....

 

 

Ron had spent the better part of the day ignoring his upcoming talk, throwing himself into work, and talking with anyone who seemed the least bit willing to hold a conversation with him. He thought he was hiding his nervousness pretty well, until he realized he’d laughed a little too hard and too long at some things that weren't all that funny. Reining himself in a bit, he took his time changing out of his uniform and doing some shopping, since he was just down to the bare essentials in his kitchen. Knowing he would need a snack to fortify him even if he ended up staying with his parents for dinner, he made a small stack of sandwiches, added about half a bag of crisps, and a couple of rows from a packet of biscuits. 

It was a good thing his job required a rigorous training exercise, or else his anxiety fueled binges would have him crashing through the flimsy floors of this crappy flat.

Once he realized he could put it off no longer, Ron Apparated to the Burrow, landing in the backyard close to the garden. 

He paused to stare up at the building that had been his home for most of his life; still was, really, since while his flat was _his,_ it wasn't exactly a home. Even though he’d been embarrassed about it when he was young, there was something comforting about the uneven structure, even with the peeling paint and missing shingles. And somehow, even though he knew he’d have a home of his own one day, this would always feel like home, too. It was a place he wouldn't have to think twice before walking inside; somewhere he knew he could raid the pantry without asking, or crash in his old room as long as he needed. 

What if what he asked today ruined all that, he wondered, his stomach taking a sick dive that had him regretting his substantial snack. What if they were so upset--what if he was so upset--that they couldn't repair whatever rift might come of this? His mouth was dry, and his hands were shaking; he was seconds away from Apparating back to his flat and forgetting the whole thing. Sod Hitchens; it wasn't worth risking what he had just to satisfy his curiosity. He wouldn't hurt himself like that, and he wouldn't hurt them. 

Of course.....Percy had hurt them pretty badly during the war, with a lot of the things he said before he walked out. He’d never seen his dad so mad--at least, not with any of them. But just yesterday, he’d seen them both laughing and talking at lunch. Percy still came to the Burrow for family dinners. Their mum still made him a sweater each Christmas. As bad as things had been, they'd still been able to work it out and heal. 

“Well, fuck me if I have less balls than Percy,” he grunted, striding over to the kitchen door and throwing it open before he could change his mind.

His mum, surprisingly, wasn't in the kitchen. Not that she spent all of her time cooking--especially now that it was just her and dad--but she always seemed to gravitate here in her spare time, to enjoy a cuppa and stare out the window, sometimes leafing through a magazine. She couldn't be too far, though, since he smelled something baking. His trainers squeaked on the clean, yet ancient floorboards as he went to find her, deciding to check the downstairs before he went up. He didn't have far to look, though, since both were in the living room; his dad asleep with the paper draped over his face, and his mum winding a ball of yarn, her hands moving rapidly in a long practiced motion.

“Ron!” She said, smiling as she looked up at his approach. “I was hoping you'd stop by sometime this week. Arthur,” she said, turning to his dad and giving him a small smack on the leg, “Wake up! Ronnie’s here!”

His dad jerked up, the paper sliding to the floor as he blinked around, his glasses askew. He adjusted them, and smiled up at Ron.

“Glad you dropped in, son. See, Molly? I told you if you baked something, at least one of our beloved offspring would turn up!”

His mum rolled her eyes, but didn't stop smiling as she looked up at the clock over the mantle. “They aren't quite ready yet, but if you sit down and stay awhile, you can have your pick while they're still warm.”

Momentarily distracted at the prospect of his mum’s food, he asked, “What is it?”

“Chocolate chip peanut butter biscuits.”

He immediately dropped into a chair, and joined both of his parents in laughing. It was a moment he wished could last the rest of the evening, but he knew that eventually, he'd have to get to the point of his visit. Still, as nervous as he was, he was determined to make this go as smoothly as possible. So he talked casually, listening to stories from his dad about work, and nodded along as his mum got him up to speed on various relatives that had written. He even relaxed enough to eat a few cookies, and, in a stroke of what he thought was Auror level cleverness, he steered the conversation to reminiscences of his childhood. 

“.....and I swear you gave me six extra grey hairs that day!” His mum laughed, rolling her eyes in fond exasperation after retelling one of his less well thought out escapades when he was about six or so.

“I was always getting into something or other, wasn't I?” He asked.

“You sure were,” his dad said, wiping a tear of laughter out of his eye, still chuckling quietly. “Although to be fair, it was your brothers leading you astray more often than not.”

“I reckon it would've been easier if I’d been a girl, huh?” He asked, knowing even as the words left his mouth that it was a clumsy lead in.

Not getting his point, his mum snorted. “As if your sister wasn't as crafty as you lot--the only difference is, _some_ people were fooled by the innocent look she’d pull afterwards,” she said, giving his dad a knowing look.

“Well, she had to keep up with the others didn't she? I suppose she never fooled you, though.”

“Of course not; where do you think she got it?”

As his parents laughed, he felt irritation mount; obviously he hadn't made his point, and if he didn't speak up, the subject was likely to change before he could.

“No. Seriously. Wouldn't you have preferred it if I’d been a girl?” He asked, no longer joking.

Their smiles faded into expressions of confusion, both of them turning to look at each other to see if the other understood, before turning back to face him. 

“Why on earth would we have wanted that?” His mum asked, frown lines creasing between her eyes and at the corners of her mouth.

“”We’ve always loved each of you exactly as you are,” his dad added, sounding puzzled.

“Look, you don't....you don't have to hide it,” he said, abandoning any pretense at subtlety as he grew more upset. “I know you always liked Ginny better. I know that after all the others, I was a disappointment. I just--I just want to get it out in the open!”

Both of them paled visibly, and his mum gasped as if each word had been a blow to the stomach. 

“Why would you think that? If you were a disappointment because you were a girl, what does that make your brothers? Do you honestly think,” she asked, her voice low and quavering, “That I could have looked down at each of my children when I first held them in my arms, and been disappointed?”

“Of course not the others,” he amended, as if it were obvious. “Bill was sort of all around perfect and reliable. Charlie was brave and strong. Percy--well, Percy might as well have been a brain with a pair of legs and glasses. The twins were clever and ambitious. And Ginny, of course, was the girl you wanted--had always wanted. Not just a girl, either, but she was pretty and smart and athletic and brave. Of course I’d be the disappointment, since I was none of those things--”

“You were all of those things!” His mum shouted, making him jump by smacking a hand on the table as tears streamed down her face. “How can you sit there and say you're not?”

The cracks in his already shaky composure began to widen, and he let out what could only be described as an hysterical laugh. “Gee, Mum, I wonder why? Maybe because it was so obvious that Ginny was the one you were waiting for--everyone and their dog knew it!”

“When did I ever say that?” His Mum demanded. “When did those words ever leave my mouth?”

“Easy, Molly,” his dad said quietly, laying a hand over hers.

“I can't remember exactly--”

“See?!”

“But I don't have to, do I?” He yelled back, standing up. “Everyone else was always saying it! ‘Molly finally got the girl she always wanted,’” he said, affecting a high pitched voice. “‘She must have been feeling pretty desperate by the time Ron came along.’ ‘Oh, didn't you know that Ron was supposed to be a girl? Poor Arthur and Molly; must've been a shock to get another son.’”

He subsided, breathing heavily and glaring.

“That’s what all of this is about? You actually think--just because--” His mum shook her head, her hands reaching up to rub her face, which looked several years older than when this conversation had started.

Ron noticed those hands were shaking, much like his.

“Ron,” his dad said, his voice quiet and steady, although clearly upset, “Those things.....well, I suppose you need to understand where that came from.”

“Excuse me a moment,” his mum said, right before standing and bolting from the room.

Ron, confused, nearly followed to see what was wrong, but his dad waved him back, before taking his glasses off and wiping the lenses in slow, meditative circles.

“You know the first war was hard on your mum. Very hard.”

“Yeah, I know. Her brothers and....yeah.”

His dad nodded. “She didn't....I suppose you could say she didn't cope very well, especially in the beginning. And perhaps it was a bit unhealthy, and I don't think she consciously intended it, but she took comfort in family, and...I don't want to say she tried to replace Fabien and Gideon, because she knew that wasn't possible, but she poured herself into building a new family. One she could love and keep safe.”

“I know that. Well, maybe I didn't, but I can see it. But what does that have to do with--?”

“And you also know,” his dad continued, “How long it had been since there’d been a girl in the Weasley line, right?”

“Yes,” Ron said slowly, still not sure where this was going, and fighting hard not to lash out from his impatience. He was hanging on by a thread.

“About the time Percy was born, people began teasing us about having so many kids; they started to say your mum must be trying for a girl. They said--”

“That our names should be Rabbitley instead of Weasley,” his mum said, shuffling back into the room, clearly having been sick. “Some of them meant all of it as a friendly joke, and others....not so much,” she continued, sitting heavily back in her seat. “And of course, I was as stubborn as any blood born Weasley, so many people assumed I would try just because I’d been told it couldn't be done.”

“But you kept trying after me, and stopped as soon as you had Ginny,” he pointed out, still stubbornly clinging to the shreds of his argument.

She took a sip from the glass of water his dad poured her from his wand before answering. “Ron, even though I was fairly young when I started having children, there were quite a few years between Bill and Ginny. Seven living children, and an unfortunate couple of losses, take a toll on a woman’s body, even with magic. You probably don't remember, and we tried to keep it from you kids, but I had problems during my last pregnancy, and things were touch and go for both Ginny and I.”

That was all....disappointingly logical. The joke made sense of why he’d never heard his parents ever actually say such a thing, but for it to have still been something clear enough to stick in a kid’s head. And seven kids.....well, his mum had always been sort of dumpy and maternal for as far back as he could remember, although old pictures were proof that wasn't always the case. For a body to have changed that much, there had to have been some wear and tear. Of course she couldn't have gone and on having kids, for Merlin’s sake.

“Alright,” he said somewhat grudgingly, “But I still never measured up to the others.”

“And who was measuring you?” His mum said, a bit of her former heat returning to her voice. “It seems to me you were doing that just fine on your own.”

“What made you think were were comparing you, son?” His dad asked in a more diplomatic tone.

“Like I said before, the others were always something,” Ron said, running his hand through his hair with such force that his nails dug into his scalp. “And Mum was always telling me how I should be like them in one way or another.”

“Ronald Weasley, I never wanted you to be anybody but your own self!” She snapped indignantly. “But you have to understand, you were....different. You'd be working away and doing well, and then you would just sort of....freeze. Almost give up, it seemed like. You got discouraged so easily, as if if you weren't good at something the first time, there was no use trying. I was just trying to give you some sort of direction until you could find your own bent--”

“Would it’ve been so bad to just let me.....just muddle along?” He asked, feeling tired to his bones. Why had he done this again?

“Yes! Oh, Ron, out of all of you kids, being poor bothered you the most. And there wasn't much I could do about that. But I could make sure you had the skills to take control of your own future--so many jobs require good marks! What kind of parent would I have been if I hadn't made you apply yourself? Should I have let you go on drifting, only for you to feel discouraged and left behind when all of your friends found jobs after graduation? Should I have let you fall behind and limit your choices? It would have been one thing if you had been incapable. Or, if like the twins, you had a passion that took you in a....slightly less than traditional direction. What was I supposed to do?”

This last was said almost pleadingly, her voice breaking. Ron found that he didn't have an answer. What should she have done? Any job he would have wanted required good N.E.W.Ts. Not only that, but employers usually looked to see if you'd improved yourself in other areas, such as being a prefect or joining some kind of group or team. Aside from when he’d joined the Quidditch team, he’d never put a lot of initiative into school. Oh, he revised, and most of it sunk in well enough for him to do well, but he knew part of that was because Harry, and more forcefully, Hermione lead the way and he went along with whatever they were doing. It wasn't, he thought, that he didn't have any natural ability, because looking back, he did, he just....hadn't really done much with it when left to himself. 

“I didn't see much point,” he admitted, “When pretty much everyone else had done....well, everything first. Why would anyone care if I did or not?”

His dad leaned forward, squinting at him slightly through his glasses. “Ron, do you remember when I taught you to ride a broom?”

Ron blinked, trying to adjust to the sudden switch. “Um, Yeah, it’s a little hazy, but I remember. Why?”

“Before I taught you, I taught Fred and George. And before them, Percy. Before him, Charlie, and of course, Bill. But do you know something? I was excited each time. It might not have been my first time, but it was _yours._ It was new all over again, because each of you were individuals. Someday, if you have kids of your own, you'll be able to know first hand that experiences are unique to each child, and watching that doesn't become any less special--or hard--no matter how many times you go through it.”

It was hard to say anything to that. Having been brought to his attention, he did remember learning to ride; he remembered the way his dad walked beside him, his voice eager as he told him what to do, grinning the entire time. He remembered how his dad had caught him when he started to fall off, and the whoop he’d let out when he had managed to fly in a complete circle. It was undeniable, really, to imagine that hadn't been a special moment to his dad, even though he’d already taught five other sons how to fly. 

“And we were always so proud whenever you did something; don't you remember how excited I was when you were made Prefect? I always knew you could, and I knew you would've been so disappointed if you hadn't been, even if you pretended otherwise.”

Being a Prefect had been important--something he hadn't even wanted to think about until it actually happened, since he figured he’d just be disappointed. But his mum, even though he wasn't the first, had acted like it was some amazing achievement--embarrassingly so at the time, but if she hadn't cared, wouldn't she have just brushed it off as something he was supposed to do anyway, and not a big deal?

“And you bought be a broom, too,” he admitted. “I probably shouldn't have asked, but--”

“You deserved it!” She said fiercely. “Well, no, you deserved a much nicer one, and I hated that we couldn't afford it, but after the robes the year before.....I knew I had to make that up somehow.”

“The robes weren't that bad,” he lied, but oddly not wanting her to feel bad. 

“Oh, Ron, I know they were! But we had no idea until the last minute that you were going to need them, and hadn't had any time to budget for three sets. I put off buying yours as long as possible, hoping something better would turn up, but that was the best I could find, even though I went to every shop I could think of. And of course, Charms wouldn't have lasted more than twenty or so minutes, and the way you can't alter tailormade robes unless you're a professional.....well, I just knew I had to do better with the broom.”

Charms and alterations worked much better on Muggle clothes. After having designs stolen, and people altering things to a hideous extent and giving designers a bad reputation, Wizarding clothmakers had started weaving spells into their work, making sure that they could only be professionally altered. Which was fine, if you had access to the right person, and money to pay for it, but not so much if you were buying used.

“I'm sorry I gave you a hard time about the robes,” he said. “I know you'd have bought better ones if you could have. They were just sort of a shock.”

“Ron,” his mum said, putting a hand on his arm, “I wasn't upset that you didn't like them! If I'd been given robes like that, I’d have probably cried! But it was either that or none at all, and have you miss the ball. What I was upset about was the fact that you expressed it in front of Harry. I know you didn't mean to, and hadn't thought of it, but the poor boy looked so guilty.....he was a guest put in an uncomfortable situation, with nothing he could really do.”

Oh. No, he'd never really thought of what that little scene had been like for Harry.....And of course, Harry would’ve felt guilty. At least he hadn't offered to buy him a set; he’d probably figured out that wouldn't be a good idea after the Omnioculars. And Harry was also always one to make a sacrifice; he might’ve ended up feeling so guilty he would've suggested that neither of them go to the ball. Harry’s life had been pretty much shite in a lot of ways; he shouldn’t have had to feel guilty because he had something nice. 

“I was really happy with the broom, though,” he said, wanting to let her know that she had made up for the robes. “And I got more use out of it than I would've with the robes.....although I'm actually surprised we were able to afford it. Were you able to find a used one?”

Both of his parents looked slightly uncomfortable. What was that about? 

“Mum? Dad? How _did_ you manage it?”

“Oh, we just cut a bit here and there,” his mum said, waving her hand in dismissal.

“Molly, we might as well be honest.”

“Mum?” He asked again.

She pursed her lips, looking down as she meticulously, and needlessly adjusted her pinny. “You were thoughtful enough to pick a less expensive model, even though I know you wanted a better one,” she began. “And if there had been just a bit more time to prepare, we could have found a way....”

“But?” Oh, fuck. Had they sold some sort of heirloom or something? Had an organ taken out on Knockturn Alley?

“I had to borrow from your aunt Muriel,” she finally confessed, all in one breath.

Bloody hell, that was worse than an heirloom or even an organ! Aunt Muriel could afford it, alright, but any time she was asked to unclench, grudgingly was only the beginning. She could make your life miserable for years, demanding that you do something by way of repaying her.

 

“Mum, I wouldn't have wanted you to do that! Merlin, she must've used that against you forever--”

“I more than made up for it years ago--but even if I hadn't, you deserved it, Ron. Things were so hard for you during those years, and....your father and I wanted you to have something nice, that was just yours. Something that was normal and fun, and didn't have anything to do with the war.”

He'd always known that they couldn't really afford it. And if she had just told him they couldn't, he would've understood. Grumbled, and probably complained like an arse, but deep down, he’d have understood. If his parents saw him as less than Ginny and his brothers, would they have made such an effort? His Mum, as helpful as she was, avoided Muriel every chance she got. Even if she hadn't had to borrow money, they still could have used it better for something else. But what he wanted mattered-- _he_ mattered to them. And they had never thrown the fact in his face, never made him feel as if he should be grateful for the sacrifice. You just didn't do that for someone you considered a disappointment, did you?

“I....it was easier not to think about when I was little,” he said quietly, playing with the empty cup his mum had given him with his snack. “But as I got older, you....you changed. Not Dad so much, but you did, Mum. It was like, I dunno, you always seemed to be upset with me or something, even if I hadn't done anything. I guess I just thought....that there was something wrong with me.”

Her whole body seemed to deflate, her shoulders rounding as she squeezed her eyes closed. “Oh, Ronnie. My poor boy. I knew I was--but I didn't think.....”

“Molly, I can explain it if you'd rather--”

“No, she said firmly, taking a deep breath. “He needs to hear this from me. I'm the one who caused this, after all, even though I never intended--well, that doesn't matter.”

Nervously, Ron bit down on the nail of his index finger, wincing as it broke off at the quick. There was no turning back now, no walking away and erasing whatever was about to be said. He thought the biscuits he ate earlier were about to claw their way up his throat.

“Ron,” she began, meeting his eyes directly. “You know the first war was hard on me. But I don't think you realize just how much it really affected me. I withdrew into myself for a long time. I became a nervous wreck when people I cared about were away from me for too long, convinced something was going to happen to them. In a lot of ways, I was like you are now. Of course, there wasn't much, if anything being done about it back then, and I'm honestly not even sure I could have accepted help if it had been offered.”

That, at least, he could understand. He knew what it was like to push people away, even when at the same time, you were desperate to protect them. And as for getting help.....well, it had been a pretty near thing.

“As the years passed, and the war was over, I thought I was getting better. I thought.....I suppose I thought having my family cured me, or at least came close. I focused on being a wife and a mother, and I avoided the fear. And then....and then you were eleven years old, ready for your first day of Hogwarts. And there he was.”

Ron blinked, his nose wrinkling in confusion. “Harry?”

She nodded, a twisted smile forming on her lips. “Harry. Harry _Potter._ The Boy Who Lived. And suddenly I knew it was all going to happen again, and I was afraid.”

“I....okay, I get that, but what does that have to do with me?”

His dad looked like he was going to say something, but a look passed between his parents, and he sat back in his seat.

“When I'm afraid, I get angry. I snap. I get....possibly a little paranoid. I try to control everything I can, as if I can prevent anything bad from happening. And from that first year, you didn't have me just afraid, you had me terrified.”

“So, what, you didn't want me to be friends with Harry?” He asked, rubbing his temples, which had begun to throb.

“Of course I did!” She said, clearly not believing there was a contradiction. “Those letters you wrote, especially around Christmas, asking--demanding that we do something for him......wanting to have him over in the summer so he wouldn't have to go home.....I was so, _so_ proud of you--I still have those letters, you know.”

“That wasn't anything,” he mumbled, oddly embarrassed, and yet, somehow, touched that not only had she remembered, she had considered those letters important enough to save.

She shook her head. “It was, Ronnie! It was! I know of all of you, being poor bothered you the most, as good as you tried to be about it. And it would have been possible, even natural in away, for you to hold on that much tighter to the things you had, too jealous to share. But you didn't. Everything you had, you wanted to share with Harry. You didn't even think about it; you just did it.”

“I....I resented him sometimes,” he confessed, feeling as if it would be dishonest to accept her praise.

“Of course you did,” his dad said. “You’re human. Not just human, but a teenager, still growing and developing, and trying to find your place in life. The fact that you might have resented him sometimes doesn't take away from what you did; if anything, it makes it all the more meaningful, because you were able to push those feelings to the side, and do what you believed to be right anyway.”

There was a stuffy, clogged up feeling in his nose, but he pushed it back; he wasn't going to cry, damn it. He was not.

“Then I still don't see why it bothered you so much,” he said, getting them back on track.

“Don't you?” She sighed. “Every year, the danger got worse. And there you were, right in the thick of it, right at Harry’s side. I was constantly ripped up inside, torn between fear of what could happen to you, and pride in your choice to stand beside Harry no matter what. Do you have any idea what it was like, knowing how close I always loved to having one of my babies ripped away from me, and knowing he was _right?”_

Ron opened his mouth, but found he couldn't speak. He’d known his mum had worried--what parent wouldn't? But at the time, he had always considered it more of an annoyance, rather than really giving any thought to what it might be like for her. Right now, if he had a kid that kept going off and deliberately putting himself into that kind of danger, he’d go mental. Raving, really. And every time they came through it, just to plunge in again? The up and down of always wondering what was going to happen, and every time you did something to keep them safe, they’d roll their eyes and do it anyway.....

“I promised myself long ago that I would do whatever it took to keep my children safe,” she said quietly, her fingers laced so tightly together that the skin over her knuckles shone white. “If that meant being over protective, so be it. If it meant nagging, I didn't care. I was even prepared to have you hate me for it, but as long as you were alive, I could have borne that.” She reached out to take his hand across the table, her voice sounding hoarse as she continued, “But what I can't bear is the fact that it hurt you like this. If anything I've said and done over the years have made you feel unloved, then I am truly, _truly_ sorry, and I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”

He gripped her hand tightly, tears stinging the back of his eyes. He was loved. The whole thing about Ginny had been a mistake. Everything else was his mum’s imperfect efforts to deal with her own scars, and a fierce desire to keep him safe. He could forgive that. Mistakes, misunderstandings.....even choosing the wrong way to do what what _right,_ he could forgive. Moreso because she hadn't brushed off his concerns, hadn't tried to justify them. She was sincerely sorry, and had asked for his forgiveness without expecting it or demanding it.

“Of course I forgive you, Mum,” he said, his voice thick, and somehow without realizing it, they had managed to stand up and throw their arms around each other in a crushing hug. They stood that way for a long time, and as they pulled away, his mum reached up to cup his face with her hands.

“You are my precious son, Ron. No matter how irritated, angry, afraid or hurt you've ever made me, you have always been wanted and loved exactly as you are. Nothing will _ever_ change that.”

He nodded and hugged her again, strangling an emotion driven laugh at the thought that he’d just accidentally wiped his wet nose on her hair, like he used to on her pinny when he was little and being comforted. Feeling overcome, and wanting to be alone to process everything, he said he was going to go ahead and go back to his flat, which sent her scurrying to pack up some biscuits for him and some leftover ham, because, ‘you always need to get your strength back after you’ve been upset.’

Carrying the food outside, he saw that his dad, who had been quiet up until now, came with him.

“I'm sorry for upsetting the both of you like that,” he said, knowing it had been just as emotional for them as it had for him.

“Of course we were upset, Ron. Any halfway decent parent would be, at the thought of being the cause of their child’s pain.”

He sighed. “I know. I probably should've just let it go--”

“No!” His dad interrupted, taking his arm. “Never be afraid of telling the people you love that they’ve hurt you. It’s the only way anything can ever get better. Neither of us, I want to make clear, are upset that you felt like that. Given everything, it’s more than understandable. We just wish we’d known sooner.”

“You couldn't have, without me telling you,” Ron said. “It’s not like you were doing obviously hurtful things that you'd _know_ you shouldn't be doing.”

“No, but a parent....well, they always feel like they should know.” His dad gave him a small smile. “Once you’ve had more than one child, you think you know how to take care of any problems that might come up, and how they’re going to react. But sometimes, the methods that work for two or three, or even five or six, won't work on one. It wasn't on purpose, or for lack of caring--never that! But I'm sorry we didn't always show you our love for you the way it needed to be shown.”

“I....I _did_ know you loved me. Mostly. It was just sometimes, in my head.....”

“Everyone needs to be shown or have it said in different ways, son. There’s no shame in asking for it. I'm just glad you finally felt able to tell us, so we could get it out in the open. Are you going to be okay?”

Taking a deep breath, Ron nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, I will--about all this, at least. Other things.....”

“Other things might take a little more time to get sorted out,” his father said, his voice filled with understanding. “But we’ll be here for you. Your mum and me.”

“I know you will, Dad,” he said, accepting a one armed hug as he juggled his food. 

He watched his dad walk back inside the house. He was tired, more tired than he’d been after his first week of basic training. But he also felt a curious lightness in his chest, something finally loosening its hold and letting him breathe just a bit deeper. He knew this wasn't his main issue; in reality, it had all bothered him more growing up than it had in the past few years. All the same, it was closure, and he felt better for having done it, so it had to be worthwhile even if there was still more to go.

Apparating away, he found himself more eager than ever for Hermione to get back; he had a lot to tell, and she was the person he wanted to share these new, happy revelations with the most.

**Story Notes: I realize that many readers have been hurt by those close to them, and often impose their feelings and reactions onto characters. Forgiving family members for things they may have done wrong is a personal decision; some things are too deep to be forgiven, sometimes time needs to pass, etc. And that is alright! But please remember that making the decision, once you have all of the information, to forgive something and move past it is no less valid. There are things that hurt deeply when we’re younger, but as we age, we don’t feel quite so strongly about (and yes, some things hurt forever, there’s no denying that.) But in this fic, Ron is perfectly aware that he doesn’t HAVE to forgive Molly and Arthur. He does so because he WANTS to, because he understands that their wrongs were from mistakes and not malice. He knows firsthand what it’s like to hurt others because of your coping mechanisms. And, equally as important, he isn’t coerced or guilt tripped into forgiving them. He is given a sincere and heartfelt apology, without having his feelings belittled or diminished. I know many people out there aren’t at that point yet, and some situations just outright don’t allow for that, but please don’t be upset because this wasn’t a huge flame against his parents, or think that this was to in anyway imply that you MUST grant someone forgiveness just because they’re family, because that definitely wasn’t the intent. For instance, I would write a Harry/Dursley interaction much, much differently.**

**On a related note, please, please don’t send me messages about how awful and abusive the Weasleys were. I’ve had floods of that from different inboxes on various forums, and don’t really want to wade my way through that depressing mess again. I’ve heard all the various arguments you can think of, I assure you.**

 

 


	15. Chapter 15

**A.N. Hey everyone! This chapter fought me at every turn, and one of the reasons is I could never decide exactly where I wanted to break it off; I was thinking I’d post next months, then combine them after a while, but now I might leave them alone, given the word count. Also, the next chapter will probably be the last one I post this year--the holidays are gearing up, and I’m involved in a lot of family/charity/outreach stuff, and I'm going to be too exhausted to write much. (Plus a tentative experiment on the non-existent lovelife front, so keep your fingers and toes crossed!)**

**Chapter Notes: I went with a more casual approach this time around, because it felt more natural; while he might have more one on one time with various ones in the future, I thought this way gets the message he needs to hear across, without being too overwhelming and emotionally intense--which after talking to his parents, he wouldn't really want for awhile.**

**Families are odd things; the way we interpret words and actions can sometimes hurt us more than the actual intent, and kids so rarely ask for clarification! For instance, whenever I would get interested in something, my parents would praise my actions and ask if I would be interested in lessons. Supportive, right? Well, I took it as them meaning I wasn’t good enough. Of course, I never told them that, so it wasn’t like they could do anything about it. Was that their fault? No. Had they done anything remotely wrong? Absolutely not! And I always saw my younger sister as being the perfect one, even though I was never compared to her, or treated any differently. But I was more headstrong, and she never really had any desire to do anything that would get her in trouble. Naturally, I got in more trouble, but that wasn’t her fault, and it wasn’t favoritism; it was just different people making different choices. Usually with age and distance we can see these things, but sometimes it has to be pointed out to us. Not all perks or special treatment is seen as such by the people receiving them, and sometimes the things you take for granted are things another person might desperately be wanting.**

 

It had been two days since his talk with his parents, and once again, Ron was at the burrow. It was louder, now, since the whole family was here--minus Hermione, who wouldn't be home until tomorrow. Charlie was here for a short visit, and their mum had wanted everyone to be together for at least one dinner. Which worked out well for Ron’s plans, if he could just cut his siblings from the herd of parents, children, and significant others. Harry and Ginny had brought Teddy, since Andromeda needed to visit a cousin, and the currently pumpkin juice-colored haired toddler was chasing Victoire around, both sets of chubby legs pumping. Victoire waddled in his direction, and he was just in time to reach out and block her head from hitting the corner of the coffee table as she stumbled.

“Thank you, Ron!” Fleur said as she swooped down to pick up her daughter, causing the toddler to whine at having her fun cut short. “I think I’ll take her to another part of the house where it’s easier to keep an eye on her, until she’s worn out enough to take a nap.”

“No problem. I’m sure there’s a Cushioning Charm on the table, but I didn’t want to risk it.”

Ron watched as Angelina, who had been talking to Fleur, decided to join her upstairs, and Fleur invited his mum to come along. He glanced around the room; that just left keeping his dad busy, and he’d be able to have everyone in one place for this. Harry was looking at him, and raised an eyebrow, to which Ron nodded. 

“Why don't we take this little guy out to your shop? I bet he’d like to see some of the Muggle stuff you have out there,” Harry asked.

“Brilliant idea! The kids used to love it when I’d take them out or show them how things worked--or better yet, how they didn’t,” he said ruefully, pulling himself out of his armchair.

Ron laughed along with the others; while his dad’s collection could be interesting in and of itself, it was always funnier to a kid when something went wrong.

Once his dad had left, with Harry carrying Teddy behind him, Bill stretched and looked around the room. “I’d ask if anyone was up for a quick game of Quidditch, but at the moment I think my broom would sink like a stone under me.”

There was a chorus of agreeable groans as everyone sat back, still stuffed from the large dinner their mother had made.

“We could play Exploding Snap or something,” Charlie suggested, never one to sit idle for long. 

“I’ll get the cards,” Ginny said, the illusion of making an effort spoiled by her lazily flicking her wand and wordlessly summoning the pack from the drawer they were kept in.

Everyone gathered around the large coffee table, much as they had done when they were children--only the slight strain in a few pairs of knees giving sign to the changes of time. Ron leaned against the sofa, only halfway paying attention to the game, waiting for the best moment to say something, hoping that everyone else would be kept busy long enough. It didn't take too long before someone brought up stories from when they were kids--he wasn't sure if it was Percy or Charlie--and luckily for him, they got around to one of Ginny’s escapades that she’d managed to keep from getting in trouble for.

“Well, Ginny was the favorite, so it wasn't much of a surprise,” he said casually, waiting for everyone else to agree with him.

“I was so not!” Ginny said, glaring at him over her cards.

“Yeah, Ron,” Charlie added. “Everyone knows Bill here was the favorite,” he playfully punched their oldest brother.

“I believe that honor was split between Fred and George,” Bill said, readjusting his ponytail that had been knocked sideways.

“Hell no!” George laughed, smirking. “You can't tell me it wasn't Percy!”

Percy took off his glasses to wipe the lenses. “Seriously? It had to be Ron, didn’t it?”

Ron watched in fascination as a small argument broke out about who was the favorite--it seemed like everyone had a different theory, only for the person in question to shoot it down in favor of someone else. He waited for them to start to wind down before jumping in.

“Charlie? Why did you think Bill was the favorite?”

Charlie looked at him like he’d asked if dragons were big. “What do you mean, why? Wasn’t it obvious? He was the first born! Everything always seemed to go to Bill. Any time you did something wrong, it was always, ‘well your brother never did that’ or ‘why don’t you try doing it like Bill?’ And he was smart and athletic and pretty much perfect, so of course it was him!”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Bill said, waving his hand to get Charlie to stop. “Are you serious? You think all that was a good thing? Do you know how many times I heard, “Bill, you shouldn’t do that! The younger ones look up to you!’ ‘Set a good example!’ and “Bill, watch the younger ones, please?’ Do you know how stifling that is? Every move, watched and judged?”

Everyone was quiet, surprised by this outburst from their usually laid back brother.

He rubbed his fingers along the scar on his face, and sighed. “The worst part is that they were right. You all _did_ look up to me--I ignored Mum and Dad as much as I could, but one day--you remember, Perce?--you nearly broke your neck trying to climb into a tree after me and Charlie, who just barely made it himself. I realized that you all did follow my lead, and I had to be careful that I didn't lead you into a mess, so of course I put a little extra effort into things. But that doesn’t make me the favorite. It just means I was the first.”

Ron flicked the edges of his cards, thinking. He’d never really considered how it had been for Bill--as a kid he’d always had a sort of hero worship for him and Charlie, but in hindsight, that was probably because there was enough of an age difference that they weren't competing for the same things; plus, by the time he was old enough to remember a lot more, Bill was already spending most of his time at Hogwarts. Charlie and Percy were closer in age, so they probably had a different perspective. But as the oldest, Bill was the one his parents had learned on, so to speak; like his dad said, by the time you have a few, you think you have it pretty much figured out. Bill had always just seemed sort of naturally responsible, but it still had to have been hard--not that their parents just went off and left him in charge of all the rest of them, but it must’ve been like being a Prefect all the time. He remembered Hermione going on and on about setting an example for the younger students, but poor Bill had had to live that even when he wasn’t at school. And since he was the first, that meant their mum likely worried over every new experience--and she worried enough by the time she got down to him and Ginny, so he couldn't help but give a sympathetic shudder at what it must’ve been like for Bill.

“But you think Fred and George were the favorites?” Ron asked, breaking the silence.

“Of course they were! I mean, even aside from the fact that they reminded Mum of her brothers--”

“Oh, yes, planned that in the womb we did,” George cut in, rolling his eyes.

“Mum and dad were always laughing about what the two of them had gotten up to--things I can promise you _I_ never would've gotten away with!”

“And we did?” George asked, starting to scowl. “Merlin, half the time everyone thought we had a one way ticket to Azkaban! And of course, any time something went wrong, we were blamed for it, whether _we’d_ done it or not.”

Everyone else looked slightly guilty at that; every single one of them had, at least one point in time, let the twins take the blame for something they had done. 

“Do you have any idea what it was like only being known as the troublemakers?” George asked, leaning forward intently. “Remember when Ron was made Prefect? Mum ooh-ed and aah-ed, talking about how everyone in the family had made it--like we weren't even there--as if maybe we wouldn't be hurt by being skipped over.”

“Hey! It’s not like the two of you ever tried to do anything that would've gotten you the position!” Ron said, stung. “You can't not put any effort in, and then expect to just be handed something--they don't give it to every ginger that walks through the door, you know!”

George shrugged, looking slightly abashed. “Well, I know, but it still hurt a little, you know? Like they weren't even surprised we didn't.....of course, the surprise that we were actually serious about starting our own business was even worse.”

“Come on, that’s not fair,” Bill said. “You never actually told anyone you wanted to make a go of it--you just started putting out even more of your homemade pranks, and got really secretive.”

“That makes sense now, but back then it didn't,” George admitted, then frowned, looking at the table. “And why do you think it’s a good thing to remind Mum about her uncles? Do you have any idea what it’s like, always being a reminder of dead people?”

The air froze, as everyone took in George’s double meaning. Not only had he and Fred reminded a lot of their family of their mum’s brothers, but once Fred died, people were constantly thinking of Fred when they saw him. 

“George,” Percy said with a worried frown, “I don't think Mum ever really saw the two of you as....replacements or something for her brothers--”

George waved him off. “I know, I know! And it’s not like she was ever the one that brought it up all that often--it was usually other relatives. I dunno, sometimes it just melts all together in your head and sticks, you know? Besides, like I was saying, you're her favorite, so--”

“And how exactly do you come to that conclusion?” Percy snapped, his concern morphing into a scowl.

“Oh, come on,” George groaned, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Perfect Prefect Percy! The Boy Who Could do No Wrong! Mum was always going on about you, and I can barely remember you getting into trouble!”

“Oh, well, let’s just take an advertisement out in the Prophet, then!” Percy said with a sneer, spreading his hands across the air as he said, “Boy Who Chooses to Follow the Rules Doesn't Get in Trouble! What was she supposed to do, punish us all whenever one messed up? Just because I _chose_ to stay out of trouble--and on that count, your memory isn't so good, because I got into my fair share--doesn't mean she thought I was any better than you! Do you know how hard it was, just for me to keep up?”

“What do you mean, keep up?” Ginny asked, leaning her chin on her folded hands.

Percy seemed to deflate. “I.....well, I wasn't the athletic, brave type like Bill and Charlie. I tried, but I just....never seemed to manage. How was I supposed to stand out, when someone else had done everything first and better?”

Ron felt his ears go read, and he stared down at the patch of carpet in front of him, not daring to look anyone in the eye. How many times had he said exactly the same thing? 

“You weren't athletic. So what? You had brain power to spare to make up for it,” George pointed out.

Ginny rolled her eyes at his bluntness, and said, “You were always brilliant, Percy! Everyone always talks about how you picked up everything earlier when you were a kid, and they were always saying how far you'd go.”

“Not the rest of you. Sometimes I felt like you'd rather I wasn't part of the family,” Percy admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. “Because I was so different--”

“Come off it!” George snapped. No one hated you--Fred and I even thought you were pretty neat, when we were little--until you started talking down to us all the time, and treating us like we were stupid and none of us were good enough for you.”

“George, that's a little harsh--” Charlie started to cut in, using the same voice he’d use when stepping between two dragons circling each other.

Percy stopped him. “No, he’s right. I did act that way. I was just so....I don't know, determined that if I couldn't be the same, I'd be so different that I’d make everyone see how--well, special I suppose--I was.”

“You were always special. You were our brother,” Bill said simply.

“And I repaid that by turning on everyone during one of the most critical moments in history,” Percy said, his voice as heavy as the weight he still clearly carried within himself. “And you all forgave me so easily.....and in some ways that makes it even worse.”

“Oh, I wouldn't say _easily,”_ George said, but in a tone of voice that said he was trying to lighten the mood, without any hostility. 

Percy gave a small smile, and some of the mounting tension ebbed from the room.

“Now, if you want my opinion, I'd say that Ron is a good candidate as favorite,” Percy said, adjusting his glasses as he peered at his youngest brother. 

“What? Me?” Ron yelped, gobsmacked at being singled out. “No way!”

“Mum always had a soft spot for you, Ron,” Percy said, nodding.

“Yeah right; every move I made earned me a session in the garden, tossing gnomes!”

“That just builds character,” George says, in the comfortable way only one who had shirked that particular punishment every chance they got could. “But it was always ‘Ronnie this,’ and Ronnie that’ and ‘Oh my poor sweet, brave boy!’ It was enough to make you sick, it was!”

Sweet, brave boy? What? Where was he when all that was going on? 

“I was never--bloody hell, how could I have been? I never stood out from the rest of you; I wasn't anything special. If I’d been the favorite, we never would've had corned beef as much as we did, for one thing!”

“Corned beef? I think you mean liverwurst,” Percy said with a shudder. “We were always having liverwurst!”

“Chicken salad,” Ginny groaned. “I would've sold my soul to have never seen another chicken salad sandwich!”

“Okay, but the clothes. Surely I might have had a few more newer things sneak into my wardrobe? Fred and George did!”

“Only because we were a different body type, and Charlie pretty much wrecked anything he ever wore beyond repair!” George said.

“You think having new meant anything?” Bill groused. “I always got stuck with things that were more classic than fashionable, and everything had to be ‘sturdy’ and ‘long-wearing.’ And of course, I could barely bloody move in them, because they were going to have to be saved for the rest of you!”

“I still say it wasn't me,” Ron said, with a stubborn tilt to his chin. “It was Ginny!”

“Like hell it was!” Ginny growled, slamming her cards down on the table. “What, just because I was a girl? Ha! How many times do you think I butted heads with Mum? And always being treated like I was weaker, and needed to be protected....if you want that, you can have it!”

“What do you mean, treated like you were weaker?” Charlie asked, puzzled.

“‘Watch your sister!’” Ginny mimicked. “‘Make sure she’s safe!’” 

The others burst out laughing, Bill and Charlie the hardest. “Gin, that had nothing to do with....Merlin, did you honestly think it was because you were a _girl?”_ Bill asked, wiping his eyes.

She cocked her head at him. “Well, yeah....why? What else could it have been?”

“Ginny, that was always said about the youngest--before us, Mum used to say it to Dad about Bill!” Charlie explained. “We were always told to watch the ones younger than us--if they’d had more kids, you’d have heard it, too. Besides, I bet you were told to watch Ron, often enough, to say nothing of the twins.”

“Oi!” Ron and George protested at the same time.

“I suppose you have a point,” Ginny snickered. “I just.....I just always assumed, since that’s why I was different....” 

_“You're_ not different,” Percy said. “The only thing different is where you are in line.”

“Huh. Guess it’s like when we were kids, and we were always squabbling over who got the biggest slice of cake--even though they were all the same size.”

There was a thoughtful moment while everyone digested this, muttering agreement. 

“Yeah, that’s true.....Although you really were the favorite.”

And they were off again, all speaking at once, a catalogue of perceived slights and favors, which the other person either didn’t even remember, or had their own spin on it. Just as things were growing heated, Bill gave a shrill whistle.

“Alright, enough!” He said loudly, raising his hands for peace, as the others quieted instinctively. “Look, we aren't kids anymore, so there’s no need to fight about it. I think it’s pretty clear that we all have different perspectives on things, and there was a certain amount of the-grass-is-greener without really taking the time to understand how things were for the other person. We all have our strengths and weaknesses, and I’m sure Mum and Dad were proud of us and driven mental by us in equal measures. Now, let’s settle back down to the game, so I can remind you all who’s the best Snap player!”

As things settled down, Ron was quiet. The day hadn't gone as he had expected, to say the least. But maybe Bill was right. Maybe each one of them had looked at another sibling and admired something about them that they didn’t feel like they had within themselves, and just assumed that everyone would prefer the person with that quality. He had never really considered how it must have been for Bill, as the oldest, needing to be responsible while it looked like the rest were being fussed over. He’d never considered things from Ginny’s point of view, how the chain of protectiveness for the youngest might be smothering and taken as a slight against her sex. While it boggled his mind, maybe she and their brothers had looked at him at some point, and wished they were more like him. He looked around at the others; each was special to him in a different way, and each, as he painfully new, irreplaceable. For the first time, it hit him that he probably was for them, too.

Growing up, you sort of expect that the people around you want the same thing. And even when you go out and meet other people, for some reason, you never think of your own family in the same way. The things we wanted to be weren’t necessarily the things they wanted to be, and the things he admired about them might actually even be something they felt of as more of a burden. And, like Ginny, it was easy to notice some kind of difference, and project it onto everyone else, who was looking at things in a totally different way. Maybe this was what Hitchens had wanted him to see--he knew he hadn't gone as....deep as he had with his parents, but the idea of the six of them sitting around crying gave him the creeps--and he might even talk more about it with different ones later, but he felt like he’d heard enough to get the general idea. 

He had never been any less than the rest of them. And the others.....well, they had never felt like they were _more._ Each one, had thought in one way or another, that they didn’t quite measure up to someone else. Maybe everyone felt that way, at some point or other; he knew Harry did, and if the bloody Boy Who Lived could, then surely no one was safe from it! But it didn’t matter, he realized. All anyone could really do was try to be the best version of themselves that they could be--comparing yourself to others is pretty useless in the end. He sat up a little straighter, looking around the table. He wasn't in their shadow. He wasn't someone who fell hopelessly short of measuring up. He was with people that knew his embarrassing flaws, and the strengths he sometimes didn't even see in himself. He was among equals. 

Howling in laughter as the cards singed Bills eyebrows, and everyone took the Mickey out after his boasting, Ron felt a new easiness settle over him. It would probably fade into the background, and sometimes he’d need to remind himself what he had learned today, but.....all in all, he thought, he felt as if, at least for right now, he could fly home without a broom.

 

 

Hermione struggled out of bed, her body fighting the magnetic force of her soft, comfy mattress. She never slept well when she travelled, and her body hadn't had enough time to adjust to being home; she was going to need several mugs of coffee to get her through the day. Although, she thought, at least today would have Ron at the end of it! She’d see him at lunch, of course, but after work she would have him all to herself. She’d missed him horribly while she was away, and they hadn't gotten to talk much--she knew that something had happened between him and his family, but he wanted to talk about it in person. 

A spurt of curiosity lent her enough power to lurch to the kitchen, her hands going through the motions of preparing her first mug. She hoped it was good news--she thought it was, since he’d seemed happy and.....something else, more self-assured, perhaps--when they had managed a short conversation by Floo. She hated that she hadn't been able to be here to support him, but there hadn't been any way to get out of her conference. One she wasn't sure had even done any good, in the long run, but she was so tired of thinking about it day in and day out that she was giving herself a mental vacation. 

And of course, she thought, taking her first sip, she had missed him for other reasons. She missed talking to him. His smile, and the way his eyes lit up when he saw her. She had missed the warmth of her arms around her as they sat together on the sofa. His lips.....her cheeks flushed. If she was honest with herself, she was hoping that they would be able to move to the next physical level. Their snogging sessions had grown more heated, and it had become harder and harder to stop them. Not just her, either, but Ron as well. She had been oddly relieved to feel him grow hard against her, even though nothing had come of it. At first, she had drawn away slightly, almost afraid to look in his eyes and find the impatience and....almost disgust that had marked the few times they had had sex in the month before they broke up. Far from that being the case, Ron had had a heat in his eyes she hadn't seen in a long time, and she had almost cried when she realized that he still wanted her as much as she did him.

Would it be too soon, though? She worried her lower lip, drawing her dressing gown a little tighter around her. Surely not. There was much more to their relationship than the physical, and Ron had been doing so well lately. Wouldn't that be a good time to.....well, take it up a notch? It wouldn't actually change anything, and they could always go back to how things were now if it was too much for either of them. Happily lost in thoughts of how to seduce her boyfriend that night, it took Hermione longer than it should have to realize someone was calling her name.

Rushing into the living room, she stopped short at the sight of Harry’s glowing face in the fireplace.

“There you are! I was afraid you'd already gone in to work,” he said.

“No, I'm a little behind today. What’s happened? Is something wrong?” She asked, the coffee she had been drinking rolling in her stomach.

“Well, sort of. Nothing really bad! Just.....I'm afraid Ron won't be able to make it tonight. We just got called out, and I can't go into details but we’ll be away at least two days.”

A stab of disappointment quickly followed her initial relief that there wasn't an emergency.

“Oh. I.....well, it can't be helped, but....” she said, trying to be cheerful, but knowing she was failing.

“It’s not fair!” Ron’s voice, oddly muffled, joined them, as his head shoved up against Harry’s, smooshing them together like two bubbles. “First your conference, and now this! Do you think they coordinate between departments to keep us apart?”

His cheek was slightly full, and she suspected he was loading up on food before he was reduced to eating rations for the next few days, which he had described as inhumane punishment. Oddly, his complaining was reminiscent enough of when they were students for her to fall back on her usual reaction.

“It can't be helped, Ron. I'm disappointed too, but you can't turn down an assignment. We’ll do something as soon as you get back.”

“Yeah, alright,” he sighed. “I just miss you, and I was really hoping we could talk, and, um--”

“Third party still present,” Harry cut in, rolling his eyes.

“Oh, sod off, Harry! You've seen Ginny recently,” Ron grunted. 

There were brief scuffling sounds, and Harry’s head disappeared abruptly, his yell of complaint fading away mid insult. 

“I really do miss you,” Ron said, looking deflated.

“I miss you, too,” she said softly, wishing they could at least be in the same room.

“I’ll let you know as soon as I'm back--I really want to do something with you, so try to keep your schedule open if you can.”

“Trust me, it’s wide open; anything else will have to wait at this point.”

He grinned at her, then looked to his left and scowled. “Crap, I gotta go or they’ll have my arse--love you!”

His head disappeared before she could answer, or remind him to be safe. She knew he was good at his job, but it always made her feel better to say it, at least. 

The little energy she had drained out of her, and she dropped onto the sofa, glaring at the empty fireplace. It wasn't fair! And even though it was ridiculous, she wanted to lie down and kick her legs like a two year old having a tantrum. But she couldn't. Could she? No. But she could do the next best thing. Summoning a quill and parchment, she dashed off a letter, and set it aside for the owl that should be arriving any minute with her paper. Normally it wouldn’t be the best career move to take a day off right when she’d just gotten back from a conference, but at this point she didn't care--she was in no mood to deal with her coworkers today, and she doubted anyone would really notice, anyway. 

She had just gone back to glaring at the fireplace when another head popped up, startling her.

“Whoah! Did I call at a bad time?” Angelina asked, one perfectly made up eyebrow arching. 

“Merlin, you startled me!” Hermione said, a hand on her chest. “No, sorry about that; Ron just told me he wasn't going to be able to come over today, after all--and probably not tomorrow, either.”

“I bet the air turned blue around him when he found out!” Angelina said with a grin.

“I was tempted to add to it myself,” Hermione admitted.

“I'm sorry things worked out like that--I saw how much he was missing you while you were gone, and I'm sure it was hard on you, too.”

Hermione sighed. “It was. Enough that I'm taking a day off--heaven knows I have enough saved up--and I refuse to feel guilty about it.”

“Good for you! Mind if I come over for a bit? George thought maybe I could let you in a few secrets from the Weasley User Manual, so to speak.”

Her cheeks colored, her mind going back to her earlier thoughts that morning. “Um, thanks, but you should tell George that he’s a few years too late--”

Angelina’s eyes went wide, before she threw her head back, hooting with laughter. “Not _that!_ Merlin, I--no, nonono.”

Turning even redder with embarrassment, Hermione said, “Oh. I feel....incredibly stupid now. What did he mean?”

The other woman sobered. “He meant that because of my relationship with him, I might be able to help you with a few things when it comes Ron.”

It took a few moments before clicking. Of course! That was--well, it was brilliant! Naturally things wouldn't be exactly the same, since both men had different personalities and different problems, but there were enough similarities that she could benefit from any advice that Angelina was willing to share. 

“Yes! That would be amazing--come on through, and I’ll go put some clothes on!”

Quickly, she hopped up and dashed from the room, eager to get back to the conversation. She might not get to see Ron today, but she might learn things that could help both him and their relationship.

Perhaps today wasn't going to be a complete waste, after all.

 


	16. Chapter 16

**A.N. Hey, everyone! I hope you all had a good holiday season. I’m finally starting to catch back up after mine, but I did manage to get this up this month, as hoped! I know it’s not very long, but like I said before I’ll probably combine it with the last chapter. Things are going to be picking up after this one; the long awaited smut, and the letter mystery bursts open. I’m hoping to get this finished this year, as I’m going to be super busy. As those of you that follow me on tumblr know, I’ve been working a lot on my health (I’m veeeeerry close to having lost 100 pounds in less than a year!), and I’m also in the process of building up stock to start my own etsy and big cartel stores, as well as hopefully publishing a few things on Kindle. Chapters should be up monthly, and after this I’ll probably only have time for one shots for awhile. I wish I had time for everything, but now that the body is healthy (as much as mine is gonna get), it’s time to work on the bank account, lol! However, there’s no danger that I’m going to abandon this before finish, so please don't worry. I would have let you know why things were taking so long, but this site doesn't allow updates that aren't chapters, and I don't think most people would've been happy anyway, getting an update notice that basically tells them that nothing is there.**

**So enjoy this brief lull, because starting next chapter, things start to heat up and move fast!**

“So. George really sent you?” Hermione asked, once they were seated at the kitchen table, each holding a steaming mug of cinnamon tea. 

“Not exactly an expected source of missions of mercy, is he?” Angelina smirked, taking a sip. 

“Well, no. I mean, I know he can't possibly be a prankster all the time, but....”

“But he works hard to give that impression. Yeah, I know. George has his softer side, though, even though he usually has an odd way of showing it. And sometimes he does it by knowing when someone else can do the job better. But he figured that since you and I are in a similar situation, and I’ve had more experience, things might be easier coming from me.”

“Don't let him feel too pleased about it, but I think he was right,” Hermione said, pausing to enjoy the warmth emanating from the mug, soothing against the palms of her hands. “Things are definitely better than they were a couple of years ago, but I have to admit that there are moments that I feel....a little lost.”

“And I hate to tell you, but that’s not going to change entirely,” Angelina said, her brown eyes full of sympathy. “Because Ron isn't exactly like George, and even if he was, there are still times when I don't know what the hell I’m doing, either.”

“That actually makes me feel a little better,” Hermione admitted. Angelina was strong and smart, so the fact that she didn't always know what to do in this situation made her feel like she wasn't complete rubbish at this.

“Is there anything specific you're wanting help with?”

“I just....everything!” Hermione blurted out. “I’m just so afraid that I'm going to mess this up--not just our relationship, but the progress he’s making. When do I let things go and be understanding? When do I speak up, and get him to push himself so he doesn't slide backwards? Should I be more available, or am I enabling him by smothering him too much? Should I--”

“Whoa, slow down!” Angelina laughed, sitting forward. “Hermione. Breathe. You're not going to do him, or yourself any good if you melt into a puddle of anxiety.”

Hermione slumped down, slightly embarrassed. “I know. I just....I know I worry too much, but it’s important.”

“It is,” Angelina agreed, “But tearing yourself apart over it won't do any good. And the more upset and worn down by worrying you are, the less you'll be able to help. And that right there is a good first rule; don't be afraid to take care of yourself.”

“Well, I do, of course, but nothing is really wrong with me, so--” Hermione began, but stopped when Angelina shook her head. 

“Hermione, that’s not the point. You shouldn't wait until things get bad enough for you that you consider it....I don't know, comparable to what Ron is going through. All that’ll do is guarantee you bottle everything inside, until you blow up at the end. It’s easier to deal with things as they come, so if you need time to yourself to get rid of stress, then take it.”

“I know that what you're saying makes sense,” Hermione said with a frown. “But I don't like the idea of not being available if he needs me.”

“Need comes in multiple levels,” Angelina pointed out. “Yeah, if something major happens, you'd need to be there for him--but don't forget that Ron has other people that are willing to support him. His parents, his siblings, Harry.....it’s good for him not to rely fully on one person, even if you are his first choice, and the one he confides the most in. It’s good for him, and for his relationships with other people. And letting them doesn't mean that you care any less, you know.”

Hermione stared into her mug, rotating the contents as if she could see the future. “I hadn't thought of it that way. But if something happened to me, or if I couldn't get to him.....he would need to have someone to help him through it, and unless he built that up now, things could go badly,” she shuddered, recalling his reaction when Fred died. 

“Exactly. There’s also that fact that while you’re the most brilliant witch of our age,” she grinned at Hermione’s blush, “other people might be better able to help in different situations. And knowing that you have people to help you help him, so to speak, will make you feel less alone, and without that constant, ‘Oh Merlin, what if I do something wrong and he explodes into a million pieces?’ feeling you seem to have going on.”

Hermione considered that. Of course she didn't want Ron to become completely dependent on her. And she didn't want him to shut the rest of his family and friends out, either. Her shoulders, which had tensed without her realizing it, relaxed slightly. Ron had people that loved him, and that would be more than happy to do whatever they could to help him--and to help her help him. She wasn't alone, and she never had been; after all, who had been helping when he wouldn't let her? And he was also clearly going to George for advice, so even if there were times she wasn't able to be with him, he wasn't going to collapse into a million little pieces. Yes, he might come to her first and most often, but she wasn't failing him by not having all the answers, or letting someone else step in if things got beyond her.

“That does make me feel better,” she said. “I mean, I knew it, but it feels better to hear it said by someone else,” she clarified. 

“To hear that you're not a horrible person if you can't devote one hundred percent of yourself to his needs one hundred percent of the time--that your love won't miraculously cure him.”

“RIght.”

“Good. Knowing you, you'll need to be reminded from time to time, but that's a start.”

Both of them laughed, knowing it to be true.

“Alright, so ignoring my flood of questions from earlier, here’s one. How do I know when to push him to talk? Sometimes I know he needs help, but he won't say anything!”

Angelina groaned. “It seems to be a Weasley trait, and count yourself lucky--mine is worse about it!” She reached for the pot of tea and poured herself another cup, taking a fortifying sip. “Okay. This is a tricky one. It can be hard to find the balance between giving them space and giving them the push they need to get things out in the open at the best of times; in these situations, things are....magnified. But if there’s one thing I’ve observed about them--and I’ve had experience with more than one--is that a Weasley needs to work things out for themselves in their own heads first, at least to a certain point. They’re stubborn, and until they can get to the point where they can admit something is wrong, it doesn't do much good saying anything.”

“But Ron already knows that there’s something wrong,” Hermione said.

Angelina nodded. “Yeah, in a big picture type of way. Which is great. But he’s still going to have to break down each individual problem as he confronts things, and as different situations crop up. And like the rest of them, he wants to have things straight in his head as much as he can before he accepts outside help--they always get even more worked up when you ask what’s wrong or how they need help, and they don't know what to tell you.”

“To be fair, that is a frustrating problem,” Hermione said. “I'm sure everyone has experienced at least a small level of knowing you need something, but not knowing exactly what. When you add in the bouts of anger and panic, things are probably even harder to figure out, and it must feel agonizing.”

Angelina sighed, her eyes falling to the table. “Yes, from what I've seen, I’d say that was a fair assumption. And it’s a good thing to keep in mind when he’s acting like an arse, but don't let things that shouldn't slide for it, either.”

“But how do I know when to push him to open up?” Hermione asked, still focused on the earlier point.

“Give him some time to do it himself, first,” Angelina advised. “Calmly notice that he’s upset about something, but be encouraging, like you're sure he’ll figure out what he needs to do. I think that would work especially well for Ron, given his confidence problems. Sometimes people can push through surprisingly well just from the fact that someone believes they can.”

“And if that doesn't work?” Hermione asked, silently agreeing that a boost to Ron’s confidence at those times would be beneficial.

“Then you press gently--express sympathy that he’s having a problem, and invite him to vent about it--being able to complain is usually a lot more appealing to people than thinking someone is going to nag at them or try to ‘fix’ them.”

“That’s going to be harder, since I know that’s how I usually come across,” Hermione said ruefully. Her way of being helpful had always involved telling people what they should do, which usually ended up being....less than helpful. Even when you were right, it didn't do any good if your method turned them away from the message.

“At least you know that, and can work on it,” Angelina encouraged her. “And then there’s the last step. By this point, he’s probably got a nasty attitude and is taking it out on the people around him, and treating him gently and nicely hasn't worked. All you can do is to tell him to pull his head out of his arse and join the rest of us. Be honest about how he’s making you feel. Give him actual examples of what he’s done, and then tell him that you love him but you're not going to be treated that way--and I can't stress enough how important it is to stay calm, since two people spiralling out of control emotionally doesn't help--and then give him space to think about it and come to you.”

Hermione propped her chin on her hands, heaving a sigh that had a strand of curls blowing outwards. “I think I’m going to have problems there, too. When Ron and I bicker, we both get heated--and I have to admit, sometimes I’m the one who takes it to that level first, or I deliberately provoke him to that point.”

Angelina smirked. “I'm familiar with your particular brand of foreplay. And when it’s just your usual bickering, or hell, even a fight, that’s fine. Just try to be more careful when it’s over something like this.”

“Still, you can see why I'm afraid I’m going to mess up, don't you?”

“Hermione!” Angelina sat back in her chair with a thump. “Of course you're going to mess up! You would even in a perfect situation--because you're human like the rest of us. And I know I'm sitting here spouting advice like some sort of guru, but I still mess up, to. All you can do is the best you can. Worrying about being perfect is only going to cause you stress and make it more likely to happen, and without you knowing it it can build up as resentment, since no one can be expected to live like that.”

“It’s hard to imagine you making mistakes,” Hermione found herself admitting. “You always seem to know what to do for George, and I know he’s been better off with your help.”

Angelina reached forward and gave Hermione’s arm a brief pat, her eyes moist. “Thanks for saying that--it means a lot to hear, although I promise it’s not entirely true. George and I have had our bad patches. And in the beginning, I made the mistake of letting him always have his way, and never telling him how I was feeling. There were even a few times I was pretty sure that it was going to be too much for us to get through.” At Hermione’s horrified look she rushed to continue, “But there were other issues there, like Fred, and the whole, ‘do you just want to be with me because I’m practically him’ thing, and...yeah.”

Hermione couldn't help but wince at that, imagining how that must have felt. “I'm sorry, Angelina. That had to be a really difficult--and delicate--issue for the two of you to sort out, and I'm sorry I made you have to think of it again.”

“Don't worry about it,” Angelina waved off her concern. “It’s just that I’ve never really talked to anyone else about that....but we got it sorted in the end. And once I started speaking up and calling him out when he was being an arse, he started to actually take a step back and see what he was becoming. I know that George can come across as....well, insensitive most of the time, but when I also started opening up about the things I was going through, and how I really needed him to be there for me.....he truly stepped up. I think it helped him to see that he wasn't the only one that was hurting, and he could actually do something about it.”

“I do want to be able to count on Ron, but I don't want to overwhelm him with my needs,” Hermione said, thinking of how often she could have used him by her side while she was grieving for her father, but also knowing Ron hadn't been in a place to cope with that.

“Sure, I get that, but not giving him that chance won't help either,” Angelina pointed out. “Ron is naturally a giver, and even though he’s making progress, he still has some self esteem issues. Knowing him, if you don't even let him try, he’ll just feel like you don't think he’s capable, or that you don't need him. Besides, in every relationship, a couple has to figure out that particular balance.”

“I suppose that’s true. But you know me; I have a tendency to overthink things.”

“No. Never would've guessed,” Angelina deadpanned.

“I think I'd like to process what we've talked about today, but would it be alright to talk to you if I have more questions?” Hermione asked.

“Of course it is! I'm just glad you feel like you can ask for help--a few years ago, Hermione Granger wouldn't have admitted to needing help--she would have found the answer in a book!”

Hermione had to laugh at that. “True, and I still do hate having to admit it. As for the books, Professor McGonagall brought me up short about that in my final year. I mentioned one day that I would sooner research a problem in the library rather than rely on someone’s personal experience, and she looked over her glasses and drawled, ‘Miss Granger, perhaps it hasn't occurred to you, but books were written by people.’ I wanted to melt into the floor, but she was right.”

“Good old McGonagall!” Angelina guffawed, holding her stomach. “I can just imagine her face when she said it, too!”

“She was right, though. And I made the decision that while I wouldn't be indiscriminate in who I listened to, I could still benefit from someone’s knowledge when they were experienced in a subject, even if they weren't formally published.”

Angelina gave a partial bow. “I appreciate the honor of being in such esteemed company,” she said, only half joking, before looking at her watch. “Well, if that was all you needed for today, I think I’ll pop over and check on my mum.”

Hermione fidgeted and bit her lip, before finally blurting, “There’s one other thing, if you don't mind?”

Pausing halfway out of her seat, Angelina sat back down. “Sure, what is it?”

She could hardly believe she was actually going to ask this. It was so embarrassing! But Angelina would understand, and while she thought she had already made up her mind, another opinion wouldn't hurt.....

“Since Ron and I have gotten back together, we’ve.....taken things a bit slowly. We both agreed, and his Healer suggested, that it was a good idea not to rush into anything too....physical.”

“So, what you're delicately trying to say is that this has been a shag free zone, and you're wanting to change that?” Angelina asked, her eyes sparking with amusement.

“Yes,” Hermione squeaked, her face turning Weasley by Proxy Red. “But we haven't since going there too soon could cause problems, so I wanted to know.....how can I tell when it’s time?”

“Oh. Well, I can at least tell you that too fast does cause problems; George and I nearly broke up over--hey, don't look like that! Ours was different--the whole Fred thing, remember?”

Hermione tried to get the mini heart attack she was experiencing under control. “That’s obviously not a factor for us, at least. It’s just....I feel like we’re ready, but I want to be sure.”

Angelina shrugged. “Hate to tell you, but I don't think you're going to be sure until it actually happens. Look, if you feel good about it, and heaven knows you're level headed enough, and Ron feels good about it, then I say go for it. You can always go back to how things are now if it’s too much.”

“That’s sort of what I was thinking,” Hermione said, relieved to have her decision validated, even if that was silly.

“Good. You need to trust yourself more, alright? I know this is all hard, believe me, I do! But you'll figure it out. You're smart, and even though Ron has some problems, he’s still capable of making decisions. Just be sure to talk about things and make sure you're on the same page, and you should be fine.”

Once Angelina had left, Hermione cleaned and put away the tea things, thinking. She’d been given some good advice, she knew, and nearly as importantly, she had heard from someone who shared similar struggles. While on a mental level she knew perfection was impossible, it was a goal she always strived to at least get as close to as possible, but in this case she was going to do more harm than good by putting undue pressure on herself. Or on Ron. She was, by nature, a problem solver--and once she saw someone with a problem, she had a tendency to immediately solve it for them, whether they wanted it or not. Even when they were children, that had sometimes rubbed Ron the wrong way, and she could understand why, if she looked at it honestly. No one liked someone barging in and acting like they knew how to handle their life better than the person himself, and even less so when they hadn't even had a chance to sort it out on their own. 

With the type of problems Ron was dealing with, an instant solution wasn't always possible anyway, and really, it was probably more beneficial if he _did_ mull things over in his head to work out the source for himself, if he could. He would feel more in control of himself, which would definitely help with his frustration, and when he was able to do it by himself, it would give him extra confidence that that was something he was capable of, as well as seeing in the future that it was possible even if he didn't feel like it at the time. 

She wandered into her room, her eyes falling on her smoothly made up bed, the throw pillows plumped up against the headboard. It reminded her that if her aborted plans ever reached fruition, her bed would be taking on a more deliciously rumpled look--as, hopefully, would she. Angelina had been right about that as well; they were both adults, and they had been good about not rushing things. If they wanted to try it, then why not? They could stop at any time, or quit altogether for awhile if they felt not quite right about it afterwards. She pulled open her underwear drawer and made a face. Everything was so.....plain. Not that Ron cared; he always preferred the gift to the wrapping, so to speak. But this was a special occasion, and she thought it would be more fun to wear something alluring. 

Maybe her bed would remain wrinkle free for a few more days yet, but a girl could always prepare......and Hermione prided herself on her prep work.

 

 

“It’s dead, Harry. Deader than my plans for the weekend,” Ron complained mournfully.

“I'd cry for you, but I’m saving my tears for myself,” Harry answered, with an unsatisfactory level of sympathy.

Ron tried to rub some life into his aching hand, numb from the past hour or so of writing up his report--probably the part of his job that he hated most. But it was an important part, one that was best done while the details were still fresh, to insure as many facts as possible were collected. He’d bitched enough about poorly written reports enough in the past to know that he couldn't give anyone reason to fault his. 

It was still bollocks though.

Sweaty, hairy bollocks.

“As you should,” he said to Harry. “You only have my bratty little sister waiting for you--I missed out on Hermione!”

“A fact of which you reminded me of the entire time,” Harry said, finally signing his name. “And something which you can now do something about, because unless you've been slacking off over there, we’re done!”

Ron waved his completed report at him. “Just been waiting for you--let’s turn these in and get the hell out of here.”

No sooner had they done so and felt the sweet, sweet relief of someone going off the clock, when Selby poked his head into the main office.

“Weasley? Potter? A word.”

The door snapped shut, and Ron flung his head back with a moan. “Fucking perfect! I thought that at least if I wasn't going to get to see Hermione, I’d at least get to go home and sleep for a brief twelve hours, but noooooo, Selby wants to chat!”

Harry was already making his way to the door. “Come on,” he said with a sigh. “Let’s get it over with. Maybe it’s important.”

“Yeah, but to who? Probably not to me,” Ron huffed, but followed along, scratching at the layer of stubble that had grown in during their mission--he could have shaved with a spell, but generally all non-essential magic was cut out in the interests of not being detected.

His question went unasked as they reached Selby’s office, filing in and shutting the door behind them. Both of them waited for him to be seated, while they stood in front of his desk at a halfhearted sort of attention--fortunately Selby wasn't a superior officer who enforced much bowing and scraping. 

“First of all, just wanted to say, good work out in the field--our seedy little friends are starting to pop back up with the warmer weather, and you're nailing each bastard down every time they do.”

Ron kept a straight face, but he felt a certain amount of pride; he put a lot of effort into his job, and while he’d do the same without recognition, it was nice that his hard work was noticed, and by someone whose opinion respected. 

“Thank you, sir,” he and Harry both said.

“Keep it up. We’ve caught a few, but more are still out there, and new ones starting in all the time. But I'm sure you've figured out I didn't call you in here just for that.”

Ron exchanged a quick glance with Harry, feeling his interest rise. Had they figured out who had been sending him those letters?

“We thought that might be the case--what is it?” Harry asked.

Selby gave them a pleased smirk as he leaned back, his hands folded on his stomach. “I thought the two of you would be pleased to learn that Pethwick has been formally discharged, and neither of you will be called on to give evidence--we had enough without you.”

“Thank fucking Merlin!” Ron said, barely able to restrain a cheer. “Couldn't have happened to a more deserving sod.”

“I'm surprised it was that easy. I know he’d managed to make some friends in high places,” Harry mused.

“He had, but thankfully not enough. And while I won't say a certain amount of eye turning hasn't gone on in the past, the department is trying to move away from that--especially in cases when not doing so is likely to wind up in someone getting killed.”

“It was only a matter of time,” Ron said. “He came too damn close sometimes just during training, so I would've bet that within a year, at least person would've been dead within a year.”

Selby sighed. “That was the conclusion the rest of us came to, too. It’s always hard to admit something like that didn't get spotted and weeded out during training, but at least it didn't get that far. Anyway, I just wanted you to hear it as soon as you got back. I'm sure you're both ready to head home, so as long as your reports are finished, that’ll be all.”

Not needing to be told twice, the two made their escape while they could, waiting until they were in the hall before they spoke. 

“Can you believe it?” Harry asked. “To be honest, I didn't think we’d be lucky enough to get rid of him--or if we did, it would take forever.”

“Maybe he’s pissed off too many of his la-di-da friends,” Ron said, marvelling how anyone like that could even make said friends in the first place.

“You're right. They might’ve seen this as the perfect chance to scrape him off. What do you think this’ll mean if he was the one sending you those notes, though? Selby didn't say anything about it.”

“I reckon he’ll either be mad enough to send a few more, or else he’ll find a new target to take things out on,” Ron answered, hitting the down button on the lift.

“Or he might be mad enough to try something bigger, so you need to be careful for awhile.”

“I know, don't worry. I figure it might be good if someone kept tabs on him, see if he looks like he’s moving on, that sort of thing. If nothing happens within, say, a month, I think it’ll mean he’s done. He doesn't have the patience for more than that.”

“True enough. Still, better safe than sorry, and I know Hermione’d feel better, too. You going to go tell her?”

Ron swallowed a yawn as the lift hit the floor, the doors clattering open.

“It’s late, I don't wanna wake her. I think I’ll head home and get some sleep first, then see if she’s free tomorrow. Although with my luck, she won't be.”

“Gee, Ron, tone down that positive attitude, will you?” Harry laughed. “I'm sure she’ll make time for you--she didn't seem any more thrilled than you were when I told her we had to go out.”

“I know, it just feels like the world is trying to keep us apart,” he sighed, then added to let Harry know he wasn't in one of his paranoid moods, “And I know it isn't, but I'd sort of like some uninterrupted time with her for something....special.”

Harry stopped short, his eyebrows climbing to his hairline. “Wait, are you going to propose? I mean, I'm happy for you if you are, but I thought it wouldn't be for awhile--”

“No! Ron choked out, nearly tripping. “That’s not--we’ve still.....that’s my long term goal, yeah, but there’s a lot of work and stuff before we get there,” he finished.

“So what’s up, then? Wanting to have a big night out, and take her to dinner or something?”

“More like a big night in, and take her to breakfast.”

“Huh? Why would--oh. Ooooooh! No wonder you were practically frothing at the mouth when we got called in!”

“Yeah, well, I'm not even sure it matters,” he sighed. “I don't want to push Hermione into something she doesn't want, but on the other hand, I don't want her holding back in case she thinks that’s what I need. Not quite sure how to figure it out.”

Harry shook his head and resumed walking, his footsteps echoing in time with Ron’s in the otherwise empty corridors. “Honestly, it’s pretty simple, Ron. You tell her you feel ready for sex. If she feels the same, you have it; if she’s not ready, you don’t.”

“I know _that,”_ Ron said, feeling slightly frustrated. “I'm just not sure how to bring it up without sounding pathetically desperate, which I am, or pushy, which I'm not--at least not about this.”

“You've snogged, right?”

“Well, yeah,” Ron admitted. “Things have.....nothing too heavy mind you, but I at least know it’s frustrated both of us to stop.”

“Then bring it up next time you get to that point,” Harry advised.

“I reckon that might work,” Ron said, brightening. It was at least something of a plan, and if he overthought things too much, he’d be in danger of his virginity growing back before anything happened.

“It did with me and Ginny.”

“Oi!” Ron yelled, punching Harry in the arm. “That was just cruel! Did you think I wanted to know that?”

“Bit of revenge for having to think of you and Hermione,” Harry grinned. “But seriously, good luck--with that, and telling her about Pethwick. I’ll see you later, right? I think your idea of going home and getting some sleep is growing on me.”

“Right, mate. Probably see you at the Burrow,” Ron said, waving as Harry stepped into a Floo. 

He got into the next one over, tiredly calling out for home, instinctively bracing himself for the force as he was jerked through and into his living room. Dumping his bag onto the floor, he made his way to the kitchen, grabbing a bag of crisps and leaning against the counter as he shoved a few into his mouth. He was hungry, but not really hungry enough to cook. Instead, he finished off the crisps, then decided to make a sandwich or two before bed, then stopped as he looked at the cupboard.

A note was stuck to it, and at first he felt his body tense up before he recognized the handwriting.

_‘Ron, knew you would be hungry when you got back, so I left you a few meat pies and a cake. Sorry it wasn't much, but I’ve been watching Victoire, and she’s getting to be a handful! Stop by the Burrow once you've rested up; your father and I would love to see you._

_Mum_

_P.S. (I washed your underwear while I was over--honestly Ronald, when you can carpet the bedroom with them, it’s time to do the laundry!)_

He grinned as he went to pull out the food, not even bothering with a plate. What would he do without dear old Mum, for a nosh and a nag?

Heating up the pies, he bit into the first one, thinking over what had happened. Pethwick, the supreme wanker, was gone! And with surprisingly little trouble. If he’d known it would be this easy, he’d have blown up long ago. Of course, if Pethwick was the one leaving those notes, then things weren't over yet, not really. If anything, it might stir him to take a bigger step, and while Ron didn't believe things would get too out of hand, he wasn't stupid enough to take risks, and was going to be more cautious than he had let on to Harry. He didn't want to worry anyone more than they already would be, so the best thing to do would be to talk about it casually, but keep his guard up. 

He was also going to have to tell Hermione, which gave him the excuse to go over--not that he really needed one, he thought happily, since she always seemed happy to have him over. And once they got the subject of Pethwick out of the way, they could move on to something more pleasant. Harry had been right; either she was ready, or she wasn't, and given her reluctance and frustration whenever they’d stopped of late, he was feeling that there was a good chance she was just as ready as he was. No, now seemed like the perfect time to step things up a bit.

After all, thanks to his mum, he had plenty of clean underwear for the occasion, didn't he? It would be a shame to waste a sign.....

 


	17. Chapter 17

**A.N. Hey everyone, I tried to get this up before midnight so there would be a February update. Sorry it’s short, but several things in my life are imploding right now, and it’s.....really bad and causing a great deal of strain for me and my family. Hopefully the next chapter will be longer; thanks for understanding.**

A pale, speckled arm poked out of the covers, the hand patting around on the nightstand several times before clumsily grasping the watch that had been tossed there last night, and withdrawing back into the darkness. Cracking one bleary, blue eye, Ron squinted to make out the numbers. Two o’clock. Was he lucky enough for that to be A.M.? Not bloody likely. Briefly, he considered dozing off for another four or so hours, but the thought of Hermione brought him wide awake. 

Flinging back the covers, he rolled over to the edge and sat up, his feet hitting the floor with a soft thwap against the rug. He rubbed at his eyes, trying to dispel the last of the tiredness. Staggering into the bathroom, he hoped Hermione wasn't busy today--hopefully she would be home when he popped in, but if not, he’d go on to the Burrow, since he didn't feel like coming back home to sulk alone. 

He showered quickly, shivering a little as he stepped out of the hot water, wrapping the towel around his waist as he stood in front of the mirror for a much needed shave. Should he bother with aftershave? He paused with his hand on the bottle, before remembering that Hermione had mentioned once, while half asleep, that she liked the way it smelled. Every little bit helps, he reasoned, patting some on, then carefully combing his damp hair, knowing that his mum would be itching to cut it if she could see the way it hung at his neck, just long enough for the edges to hang over his collar. He smirked a little, also recalling the fact that Hermione always liked a little to hold onto. 

Next, he stood in front of his closet, trying to pick out a shirt. His criteria was ‘nice, but easily removable,’ which narrowed his choices drastically. He finally settled on a striped green jumper and the pair of corduroys with the fly that never seemed to stick--easy access was key tonight, Merlin willing. With a final check in the mirror, he was just about to leave, when an owl came scratching at his window. He crossed over to let it in, removing the letter to read it. It was from Hitchens, wanting to schedule a session for the day after tomorrow. Ron bit back a sigh. A large part of him didn't want to go in. He was doing pretty well, all things considered, so maybe he just finally had a handle on whatever was wrong with him? Of course, he did still feel a little on edge with his temper from time to time. And he’d had a small nightmare while in the field. Nothing major, but......maybe he’d better go in, just to be on the safe side. He scrawled a confirmation, shutting the window once he’d set the owl on its way with a treat. Hoping that was the last of the interruptions, he stepped over to the Floo, calling out Hermione’s address.

“Hermione?” He said, loudly enough to be heard if she was in her room. 

Stepping out of the fireplace, he brushed himself off, thinking it might’ve been a better idea to Apparate. He had just finished attempting to straighten his hair when he heard footsteps, and he nearly tripped as he struggled to adopt a casual pose. 

“Ron!” Hermione said brightly, stepping into the doorway. She was wearing fitted jeans and a clingy purple jumper, indicating she’d either been out or was getting ready to leave.

“Hey. Sorry if this is a bad time?” He asked, eyeing her outfit. She was looking quite fit, so he was hoping he wasn't going to have to leave.

“No, I just got back and was putting a few things away--why don't you help yourself to a Butterbeer while I finish up? I'll just be a minute,” she said.

“Sure, I’ll--” but she had already turned and darted down the hall, on odd expression on her face.

Ron stared after her a moment, before shaking his head with a small smile. Mental, that one, but he loved her. Taking her up on her offer, he went into her kitchen and rummaged around for two bottles of Butterbeer, before heading back into the living room. He sat down on the sofa, angling his body in prime Invitation to Cuddle Position, and had managed to drink half of his bottle before Hermione came hurrying back into the room. She hadn't changed clothes, although her jumper was hanging askew, like she had just put it on. And her hair had some static to it, even though it had been fairly tame earlier. She also looked slightly out of breath, as if she had been moving quickly, but Ron shrugged it off, telling himself he was mistaken. 

“Sorry for the wait,” she said, sitting down and accepting the bottle he held out. “I was putting things away, then I noticed how messy the room had gotten, and, well....” she trailed off with a nervous laugh, her cheeks flushing deeper.

Well, that explained it; Hermione could never pass up a mess without tidying it up. The only surprise was that it had gotten to that state in the first place. Still, it was such a typically Hermione thing that he had to smile.

“What is it?” she asked, pausing with the bottle raised to her lips.

“Nothing,” he shrugged. “I just realized how much I missed you.”

She set the bottle on the table, and snuggled in closer to his side. “I missed you, too. I hated that you couldn't come over the other day, after all the time we’d been apart.”

He put his arm around her, feeling himself relax. “It feels like a lot has happened since the last time I saw you--I mean, I know we talked through the Floo--”

“But it wasn't the same,” she finished. “And every time, one or both of us was dead on our feet, which was frustrating.” She half twisted to look at him. “You do know it was just me being exhausted, right? You know it wasn't because I wasn't interested in what you were saying?”

“Hey, I yawned just as much as you did,” Ron said, trying not to jostle her too much with a shrug. “You could’ve avoided my calls, if you hadn't wanted to hear from me, and it’s not like you ever cut me off to say you had to do something else. It was just one of those things that makes me glad we’re not in a long distance relationship full time.”

“I think I would hate that,” Hermione groaned. “And I would definitely miss this,” she said, snuggling deeper into his side. “I know you've kept me up to speed, but tell me again about everything that happened with you, please?”

Slowly, he began to go back over the talks he’d had with his family, both with his parents, and his siblings. Although Hermione had heard it before, she was more alert this time, asking questions, and adding her own comments. Although he’d come over with.....rather less than pure motives, as he spoke he was struck by just how good it was to just be sitting with her, able to touch her while talking. He was able to open up to her about all the mental crap that went on in his head, and have her accept him anyway, something that not everyone had in their life. It was special, and far more important than a shag--although, he thought to himself, if she didn't stop stroking his thigh like that, he was going to be distracted by temptation. 

“There’s something else I need to tell you,” he said reluctantly, cursing himself for a fool when she sat up straight to look at him.

“What is it?” She asked, the skin between her eyes creasing with worry.

“It’s nothing bad,” he promised, not wanting her to get upset over nothing. “It’s just that when we got back, Selby called us in to let us know that we’re rid of Pethwick for good, is all.”

But instead of setting her mind at rest, she looked even more concerned. “I know that’s great for the department, but I'm sure you realize that if he’s been the one sending those notes, this could push him over the edge to do something drastic.”

“I know,” he sighed, letting his head flop back against the sofa. “And I’m going to be careful, even though it could be a break if he makes a move. But this means that you have to be careful too, remember?” He asked, some of her worry rubbing off on him.

“I will be, but don't forget, you're his main target--as mad as he could be over this, he might want to strike directly rather than drawing things out. Are you sure the Wards on your flat--”

“Are the best they can be, and you know that because you've tested them yourself,” he said. “I didn't tell you this to make you worry, though. Everything is gonna be fine, so can we drop it? Talking about Pethprick wasn't really how I’d planned to spend the evening.”

Hermione snorted at the subtly crass insult, then smiled, deciding that Ron was right, and there was no reason that this news should ruin the evening. “What did you have in mind?” She asked with a knowing smile.

“Well, for starters, you haven't kissed me yet, which has to be illegal or something,” he said, smiling as he leaned towards her. 

“We can't be having that, can we? Wouldn't want you to have to arrest me,” she whispered, close enough that their lips brushed together as she spoke.

There was the fluttering hint of a kiss, and then two, before it deepened, the intensity of bottled emotion building up with a delicious yet painful slowness. His hand found its way to the back of her head, sinking into the soft, springy mass of her curls, pulling her more firmly against him. He let out a moan when she chose to reciprocate, her fingernails lightly scratching down through his hair and along his neck. He was surprised when her hands slipped down further over his shoulders to push against his chest, and he briefly wondered if she was trying to signal him to stop. Before he could ask, she had swung her leg over him so she could straddle his lap, grinding herself against him in an enticing manner. Bloody hell, that was fantastic! 

His hands dropped to her hips to guide her a bit, before he went ahead and gripped her arse, lifting his hips up to meet hers. She gasped, and he took the opportunity to nibble along the column of her neck, a move he recalled her particularly enjoying in the past. 

“Ron!”

Ah, yes, it was good to be right--especially when being right meant she arched her back enough to practically shove her tits in your face. He gave them a nuzzle, working at the edge of her jumper, only to have her take over and remove it for him, leaving him staring at a silky little pale pink bra with bits of ribbon and lace. Not, he knew, Hermione’s usual style. Which meant she had put it on to be seen. Which suddenly explained her trip back to her room earlier and slightly rumpled appearance. She hadn't done this for any of their other snogging sessions, which meant--

“Hermione--you're wearing--does that mean you wanna--”

She was blushing, but gave a fierce nod. “I....I want it, Ron. I want you. That is, if you feel alright about it--”

He grinned, running a finger under the strap of the bra. “Then maybe we can take this to your room; I'm curious to see if the knickers match.”

She smirked as she grabbed him by the hand and stood up, tugging him after her. “Who’s to say if I'm even wearing any at all?”

At that moment Ron would swear that every drop of blood in his body shot straight to his cock. He staggered and she giggled at him, both their hands already starting to wander before they had even fully made it into her room. They fell onto her bed, Ron not entirely sure how he had ended up shirtless, but not caring in the least since his mouth was latched to Hermione’s breast, sucking her nipple stiff through the thin fabric. Reluctantly, he moved away, scooting down the bed as he worked at the fastenings of her jeans, tugging them down her legs as she lifted herself off the mattress to make it easier. 

The knickers did, in fact, match. At least, what there was of them. They were barely more than a scrap of pink, the laces holding them together so delicate that he knew it would be easy to snap right through them. The most enticing part, though, was the large damp patch that made them see through. Gently, he ran his finger over it, causing her body to jerk as her hands spasmodically clutched the pillow. Eagerly he lowered himself to flick his tongue over the cloth, before moving it aside to get at her directly. Fueled by her moans, he continued to lap at her, building them both to a fever pitch. His breath coming in uneven rasps, he braced himself on one arm to look up at her.

“‘Ermione, I don't wanna rush through this, but--”

“Please, Ron. I want you now--I don't want to wait anymore,” she said, tugging on his shoulders until he moved up over her.

Softly, he kissed her. “I’ll make the next one last, I promise,” he said, before easing himself into her, clenching his eyes shut as her muscles squeezed around him.

Her hands were in his hair, and her legs were locked around him as he moved, his body somehow easily falling back into the old rhythm. He tried to hold out as long as he could, but it had been so long, and she felt so good; he barely had the presence of mind to help her along with his fingers before he was spilling into her, roaring her name.

Breathless and spent, they both lay there limply, waiting for their heartbeats to stop racing. He knew he would need a little time to recover, but not wanting to lose the closeness, he pulled her to him, wrapping an arm around her.He heard her gasp, and she stiffened slightly before relaxing into him.

“Is something wrong?” He asked, his voice slurred.

“No,” she said against his chest. “I'm just.....I'm just really happy. Are you?”

His eyes feeling heavy, he twisted his head to kiss her damp temple. “‘Course I'm happy. I'm with you, aren't I?”

“Yes,” she said with a small laugh. You are. You really, really are.”

 

 

 

There was a moment of disorientation that one always felt upon waking up in a strange bed. Ron blinked in the early morning light, briefly wondering why it was coming from his right rather than his left. Then he remembered, the events of the night flashing through his mind as a satisfied, lazy smile curled across his face. Already knowing what he would find, he looked down at the unaccustomed weight on his chest, where Hermione’s head was resting. Her hair obscured her face, but he could tell by her breathing that she was still asleep. Part of him--specifically the lower half--was in favor of waking her and continuing where they had left off last night. But she seemed so relaxed, and the bed was so warm, that he felt himself drifting back to sleep, content in the knowledge that he didn't have anywhere else he had to be.

“Ron, wake up!”

With a jerk, he startled awake, his eyes shifting all around the room as he sprang into a sitting position, his heart thudding in his chest. Hermione was in the small chair in the corner of her room, tugging on a pair of trainers.

“What’s going on?” He snapped, unable to find any sign of danger, but gripping his wand tightly anyway.

“I wanted to let you sleep, and I’d gotten up and gone into the kitchen to make us something to eat, when an owl came. It was from your dad. Something happened to Fleur, and the whole family is at Mungo’s, and they want us to meet them there.”

Even as his mouth went dry, he had rolled from the bed and was snatching his clothes off the floor, shoving them on as he found them. 

“Fuck! Did he say what it was? Is she going to be alright? Oh Merlin, the baby! What about the baby?” He asked, feeling sick for both Fleur and his brother.

“I think he was in a hurry when he wrote, so I don't know,” Hermione answered, biting her thumbnail. “I'm just hoping that whatever it was, they got her there fast enough.”

Ron gave his fingers a halfhearted attempt at a finger comb as they hurried to the Floo, his footsteps pausing only briefly as he remembered that since he hadn't known he’d be spending the night, he’d forgotten his potion. No time to get it, now. But he’d been doing fine, and surely one day wouldn't hurt him. He’d be home tomorrow and take it then. Besides, he had more important things to worry about at the moment. 

They stumbled out near the front desk, where his dad was waiting for them.

“They’re still back running tests on her,” he told them without bothering to say hello. “Come on back to the waiting room where everyone else is, and hopefully they can tell us something soon.”

“Dad, what happened? Does anyone know?” Ron asked as they followed him.

“She fell on that footpath out by their place--you know the one on the incline?”

He and Hermione exchanged looks, wincing. It was a rocky, bumpy little path which would be painful to fall on at the best of times, and much more dangerous while pregnant.

“Yeah, we know it,” he answered.

“Luckily Bill saw it happen and was able to get her here right away. She seemed to be alright aside from bruises and scrapes, but we’re still waiting on word about the baby.”

They had arrived at the waiting room, which was filled with a sea of gingers--and Harry. His mother bustled over to hug him, and he held on tightly, taking comfort in the feeling that only a mother’s hug could impart.

“We came as soon as we could,” he said, finally pulling back slightly.

She narrowed her reddened eyes up at him. “Which would have been sooner, if you had been home where we sent a message first,” She said accusingly.

Comfort and worry turned to irritation, and he sighed, “Mum, could you not--”

But she didn't let him finish, suddenly waving her hand. “Sorry, I'm upset--I don't like not being able to find one of you when something goes wrong. Hermione, thank you so much for coming,” she finished, turning to take Hermione into her arms. 

Hermione, who had been looking unsure if she should be there or not, relaxed into his mum’s embrace, and soon the two of them were sitting together and talking.

“Did Mum just really give in that quick?” He muttered, suspecting Polyjuice was involved somehow.

“She’s trying. You're not the only one who can work on getting better, you know,” his dad said gently from beside him.

“What brought all that on?” Ron asked, feeling confused.

“You, of course,” his dad said with a small smile. “She’s proud of what you're doing, and it inspired her. She might not make as much progress, but it’s a big deal for her.”

Unable to think of a reply, Ron could only stare at his mother in stunned silence. Throughout his childhood, his mum had always had very definite ideas about how he should behave, and had never been shy of telling him he wasn't living up to the way he’d been taught, and how his behavior and actions needed to improve--and admittedly looking back on it, doing her best to make sure that he grew into someone who would treat others well, and to recognize what was right and do it.. He knew that she loved him, and was proud of him, but for her to model herself in anyway based on him.....it was...well, it was staggering.

He didn't have much time to dwell on that though, as Bill stepped through the door, and his family fell silent. Bill was pale--beyond ginger pale--and it made the scars on his face stand out harshly, looking almost raw. He gave them all a wan smile, and it was as if the entire room released a collective breath.

“How is she? And the baby?” Their mum asked, rushing over to take her oldest son’s hands in hers.

Bill gave himself a shake. “Fleur is fine; probably won't even have any scars. I think in scared her more than anything, because of the baby. The Healers want to keep her here for a few hours, just to be safe, but as far as they can tell right now, everything is fine.”

Ron felt his heartbeat returning to normal, relieved that everything was alright. He gave a slight jump as Hermione slipped her hand into his, and he looked down to smile at her, surprised that he hadn't heard her come up to stand beside him. People began to leave, not wanting to take up space in the waiting room, except for his mum, who said she would wait with Bill. He and Hermione said their goodbyes, then Apparated back to her flat.

“Not really the kind of excitement I’d expected to start the day with,” Ron commented as he followed her into the kitchen. 

“I know. Although I do feel bad for making your mum worry when she couldn't find you,” Hermione said as she began to fix the breakfast she had been setting out ingredients for before they left.

“Ron grinned. “Could’ve been worse. We could have been at my place, and Mom could have Apparated over to tell me.”

“You laugh, but it’s exceedingly possible that that may happen in the future,” Hermione said, pointing her wand at him to punctuate her remark before setting the eggs to scramble.

“What, already making plans to sleep over?”

Hermione flushed, but a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. “Well, it wouldn't be fair always using my flat, now would it?”

He pretended to think that over. “No, I suppose you're right; in the interest of fairness, we should split it--which means I owe you a night. Interested in collecting tonight?”

She smiled archly at him, pausing in mixing the pancake batter. “That depends on how the rest of the day goes.”

Spilt batter and ruined eggs aside, Ron thought, the rest of the day went exceedingly well.

 

 

 

“One of these days I’ll be back of top of things and actually be in the office before you, but today isn't one of those days,” Hitchens greeted him, carrying two of his large cups of coffee and setting one down in front of Ron. “I bring this as an apology.”

Ron took it gratefully--breakfast had been a rushed affair, and not very filling. “No problem, I haven't been here long,” he said. 

“That’s good, but still, I'm hoping if I can get a bit more growth in this department, things won't be spread quite so thin. So,” he continued briskly, taking his seat, “Let’s go over what I asked you to do last time, shall we? That is, if you had time to do it.”

Sipping on his coffee, Ron recounted the conversation he’d had with his siblings, not bothering to try to tell it word for word, but covering what each of them had said in general. Hitchens, looking bloodshot and frayed around the edges, nevertheless kept his attention firmly on Ron, the hand not holding his cup scribbling down notes as they went along.

“That’s about what I expected. Tell me, were you surprised at what you heard?”

“Honestly? Yeah. I mean, I never knew any of them felt that way--and I feel bad for that--but some of the things they were saying, I know for a fact the rest of us never said, or meant the way they thought we did!”

“But based on their own feelings and interpretations, they took those things as fact, which in some ways impacted the relationships among various family members.”

“And I saw where you were going with that,” Ron gave a small smile. “It means that I’ve done the same thing, too. Not that....not that the way I feel isn't important, but unless I speak up, I might not be getting the full story, and I might not be seeing things from others’ perspective. It’s all real, but at the same time, it sort of isn't.”

“That’s a good way of putting it. There’s a saying; in any argument, there are three views. What you say happened, what I say happened, and what actually happened. Don't get me wrong, feelings are very important. They're how we learn about ourselves and each other. But so often we focus on our own feelings and forget others, which can be dangerous since how we treat people is most often based on our perceptions of them.”

Ron squirmed in his seat. “I've had experience with that. When we were kids, I sort of decided right away that Hermione was a stuck up know it all, and that’s how I treated her--didn't really give her a chance to prove any different. Hurt her in the process, too.”

“A mistake you've obviously rectified,” Hitchens smiled. “And while it’s a mistake you'll make again--we all do--it’s a good practice to try to stay mindful of the fact that judgements about someone’s words or actions need to be considered carefully, and not be based solely on feelings.”

“What about gut feelings?” Ron wanted to know. “Sometimes those pay off--I’ve had ‘em myself, and so have a lot of other Aurors.”

Hitchens nodded. “That’s true enough. With experience, one comes to the point where you can spot a wrong ‘un before you know _why_ they're a wrong ‘un, so to speak. But even then, sometimes people give off that kind of signal without anything being behind it, and you have to be careful to wait for confirmation.”

Ron sighed. “I know, they covered that in training, that you have to watch, not act. Which I do, all the time. Constant vigilance, and all that.”

“I detect a little Mad Eye influence,” Hitchens said, with an amused tilt of the lips.

“Well, it’s true enough he was a paranoid old bugger,” Ron shrugged. “But that didn't mean they weren't out to get him.”

“A valid point,” Hitchens conceded. But I trust that you know the difference between the two types of situations we’ve talked about.”

“I do. And I think all things considered, the first is the hardest. It’s one thing to eye up a stranger, and wait until you can see if you've taken their measure right. But it’s different when it’s someone that’s close to you, and your emotions are involved. I've always thought I knew my family pretty well, but I think after this week, maybe some of the things I thought I knew were based on how I would have felt--or thought I would have felt--in their place.”

They spoke a few minutes more, then Hitchens leaned back in his chair.

“All in all, I think you've made good progress. And I also think you know what I’d like to start discussing in your next session.”

 

 

Almost imperceptibly, Ron cringed. “Don't you think it’s still a bit soon for that?” He asked, hating how he sounded like a child trying to get out of chores, but unable to help it.

Hitchens gave him a look, but it wasn't unkind. “Up to this point, I've tried to ease you into this, to let you move at your own pace. But I get the feeling that now you're actually dragging your feet.”

Well, yes. Yes he bloody well was, as a matter of fact. 

“You said yourself you thought I was making progress.”

“Yes, Inasmuch as you've learned some things about yourself and your family that will help you in the future, and you've been receptive to that. But you know that is only going to do so much until we get to the root of the problem.”

“It’s going to be hard,” Ron admitted. And everything has been going so well recently.....I don't want to rock that, you know?”

“I do know. I really do,” Hitchens said, sitting forward. “But we either do it when things are going well, or we wait until the inevitable moment when they aren't--and believe me, that second option is never pretty.”

“I could have guessed as much,” Ron muttered. “And I suppose I don't really have a choice. But we can wait to start till next time, right?”

“That was what I had planned. And look, I'm not going to sugar coat things, I know this is going to be difficult for you to talk about. But I promise that I’ll try to make the process as easy as I can, alright?”

Ron gave a limp shrug. “I don't see how that’d be possible, but thanks for that, at least. Are we done for the day?” He asked, suddenly finding the office suffocating.

Hitchens nodded. “We are. I'm sorry to end things on an unpleasant note, but I figured you were the type that would appreciate time to get used to the idea, rather than have it sprung on you. Try talking it over with someone you trust, in the meantime.”

Ron mumbled something in response, finished off the last of his coffee, and left. He was far from pleased, and even though Hitchens had been right in thinking that he would prefer to know, it would still hang over him like a dark cloud until next time. He wished he could find some excuse to avoid it, but he wasn't that lucky, and anyway there was no sense in putting it off. Maybe, if he was lucky, Hermione would at least console him with sympathy sex.

He walked to work slowly, thinking that he would tell Hermione and Harry about it later.

“At least the worst has finally happened,” he said.

Wrongly, as it turned out.

 

 

 


	18. Chapter 18

**A.N. Hey everyone! Sorry it’s been so long--the depressing reason is on my tumblr page, but thanks everyone for being so patient. Things are slowly getting back to normal, and while this chapter is short, I’ll probably be making up for it in classic form in the near future!**

 

“Well, it’s not pretty, but I reckon it’ll hold,” Bill said with some satisfaction, gazing at their work.

Ron eyed the railing critically, and had to agree. “And I’m sure Fleur knows some charms to make it look the way she wants--I never paid too much attention to those, so I’m sorry I wasn't any more help.”

Bill shoved his wand in his pocket, and gave the rail a firm shake to test it. It didn't budge. “You were plenty help, and you're right--Fleur will know what to do to change the looks of it. She’d change it no matter what we did, anyway.”

“I'm guessing she’s still at it with the nursery, then?” Ron asked with a smirk, to which Bill groaned loudly.

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“You're only smug because you haven't experienced that with Hermione--yet. Just wait until you move in together.”

“That’s still a bit of a ways off,” Ron sputtered. “And besides, I don't think Hermione’ll be _that_ bad.”

“Oh, no?” Bill grinned, his scars crinkling. “You don't think she’ll spend months rearranging her books, trying to decide exactly how she wants them? By author, or by subject. Chronological, or frequency of reading. If she wants--”

“I get it, I get it!” Ron said, throwing up his hands. Consider me corrected. But like I said, it’s still a ways off.”

“Really? The two of you seemed awful cozy earlier,” Bill said, glancing at him slyly as they slowly made their way up the incline, the waves crashing behind them.

“Well, we do have a few things at each other’s flats,” Ron admitted. “But don't tell Mum!”

“Coward.”

“Absolutely.”

“So, everything is ticking along in your lovelife; how about work?” Bill asked.

Ron held back a deep sigh, wishing he could go back to being teased about Hermione. 

“It’s fine. I mean, I told you about Pethwick, and how we’re rid of him, and that I--and the rest of you--need to be careful until we see if he’s going to do anything....but other than that, everything is about the same.”

“Hm. So it’s not work, then,” Bill said with a frown.

“What do you mean?” Ron asked, stopping to turn to look at his brother.

Bill stopped as well, crossing his arms and regarding him thoughtfully. “It’s just that ever since you got here, I could tell something was eating at you. I was just trying to narrow down what it could be.”

Sometimes there were downsides to people knowing you so well, Ron thought, resignedly leaning against a rock, after doing a hasty cushioning charm. Might as well get it out, and at least Bill wasn't the type to blab.

“It’s my Mind Healer,” he said, staring out at the landscape rather than making eye contact. “He says it’s time for me to talk about....to talk about the things that happened during the war.”

He heard Bill let out a breath, but still didn't turn to look at him.

“Wondered when that was going to come up. Reckon he wanted to ease you into it?”

Ron nodded.

“Sensible of him. Although I'm guessing by the look on your face that you'd like to avoid the whole conversation all together.”

“Hell, yes. For a wooden Knut, I wouldn't even go in for the next appointment.....until I think of everything sliding back to the way it was. I still feel it sometimes, at the edges, and I worry that it'll come creeping back if I don't see this through.”

“And I think you need to listen to that feeling--I know that you haven't had some sort of miraculous healing, but you've been so much better, Ron. All of us can see it, and I think you know it as well.”

“I do. I mean, I wish it had been a miraculous cure, like you said, but for the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm living my life and not just going through the motions--I’m moving forward and not just struggling to stay afloat. I Don't want to lose that. But Bill, some of the things I’m going to have to talk about....”

Bill’s eyes became hooded. “I can't blame you for that. The things you had to see during that time, the things you had to go through....I don't think anyone would relive it if they could help it.”

Ron shook his head in frustration. “That's the thing. If it was just that, I might be able to do it. I wouldn't enjoy it, I’d probably even be sick over it, but I could do it. But Bill, I'm going to have to tell how I--how I.....I left them,” he barely managed to choke out, his voice breaking.

Bill clapped a hand on Ron’s shoulder, forcing him to look up. “You've got to stop beating yourself up over that! You always act as if you did it on purpose, rather than stomping away mad like nearly anyone would do in an emotionally charged situation like that. How were you supposed to know you wouldn't be able to get back?”

His brother, like others, had said the same before, but Ron shrugged. He’d always seemed to feel like he _should_ have known, should have done things differently somehow. Instead he’d let his worry over the rest of his family, temper, and hurt feelings get the best of him, and had stormed out. Even then, part of him hoping that the others would call him back.....but they didn't--at least, not that he’d heard in time. 

“Doesn't make it right,” he mumbled.

“Doesn't make you some kind of villain, either,” Bill snapped back. “Merlin’s balls, you were a seventeen year old kid with way too much on your shoulders--and absolutely no training on how to keep your emotions in checked in such a situation. Besides, Harry and Hermione and both forgiven you for anything you did, so it’s time you did, too.”

“I know,” Ron agreed, knowing that in truth he probably never would, but not wanting to argue. “I guess maybe it’s having to talk about it with a stranger that’s bothering me.”

Bill began to walk, his pace slow. “I can see that, but maybe it’s actually a good thing, you know?”

Ron fell in at his side, small pebbles rolling under his feet. “How do you mean?”

“Well, legally, he can't say anything to anyone else, which would be an uncomfortable risk otherwise. But with him? You can say anything you want, everything you need to, and once you're done with your sessions, you never have to see him again.”

Ron turned that over in his head, and liked that idea the more he thought of it. It was a subject he hated talking about with anyone, that sick feeling in his stomach imagining what they would think of him. And he had grown to respect Hitchens, even like him, and knowing the disgust that he was certain to feel once he had heard what Ron had done had made him even more reluctant to go into it. But Bill was right. Once this was all over, he could walk away from Hitchens and never look back, never see the _knowing_ in the other man’s eyes. Some might find that cowardly, but Ron took comfort in it. 

“Suppose that’s true enough.” He gave himself a shake, and gave Bill a small grin. “I’ll be fine; I guess Hermione is starting to rub off on me, and I have to worry everything to death first.”

“Hm. That’s not the only thing she’s rubbing off on you,” Bill said, his eyes sparking in twin-like mischief.

“Huh?” Ron asked with a frown.

“I mean that rather conspicuous love bite that’s right at the edge of your shirt....”

Ron frantically slapped his hand to his neck, before remembering that he’d checked himself over in the mirror that morning for anything of the sort, and had been clear. He let out a roar, and began to chase his laughing brother all the way back up to the cottage.

 

 

 

“Has he talked to you about it?” Hermione asked, her fingers flipping along the pages of a report she was supposed to be going over, and uncharacteristically only skimmed.

Harry shook his head, rolling his wand between his hands before setting it on the kitchen table and looking up at her with a sigh.

“Not a word. Part of that is we’ve been run off our feet and haven't really had a moment alone. Then the few times we have, he opens his mouth like he’s going to say something, but always seems to change his mind before he gets it out. I don't want to pin him down about it, but I wish he’d just come out with it; we've already told him we don't mind him talking about it.”

“Yes, but I sort of get the feeling he’d rather we did,” Hermione pointed out. “It’s causing him a lot of stress, too. I see him come right up to the edge of losing his temper before he gets control of himself. We haven't had a fight, but I'm afraid he might try to provoke one subconsciously just for some relief.”

Harry frowned. “I'm not sure if that's a good thing or a bad thing, at this point. On the one hand, it would get him to let it all out instead of keeping things bottled up, but I don't think it’d be all that great for your relationship at this point.”

Hermione crossed her arms on the table and leaned forward. “That’s my problem. Part of me wants to go ahead and let him, because sometimes you just have to lance the boil and get all the puss out--”

“Thanks for that lovely mental image,” Harry said, making a face.

“Oh, you know what I mean! Anyway, I don't think it would be a good idea right now. Things have been going well between us, but it’s still too new to risk it. I’m liable to get so caught up in it that I forget I don't really mean it, and say something I regret.”

“It’s not worth that, so we’ll have to find a different way,” Harry agreed.

“I wish the whole thing didn't bother him so much,” Hermione said sadly. “It was a horrific time for all of us, but Ron seems to take an added....I don't know, if I didn't know any better, I’d almost call it guilt, onto himself.”

“I know,” Harry said, his throat working as he looked down at the table. “And I know that if I hadn't dragged the two of you into it--”

“We’d all be dead or worse by now,” Hermione snapped. “So stop thinking like that! Merlin knows it was always hard enough to get you to stop thinking like that before, and I certainly don't need you and Ron doing a duet about it.”

A short laugh escaped Harry’s throat, the haunted look fading from his eyes. “Not going to let me have a good wallow, are you?”

She shook her head with a thin smile. “Not today. Let’s get Ron settled, and then you can have a turn at the tragic hero bit--until Ginny gets ahold of you, that is.”

Harry’s grin widened. “Maybe we should have her try to deal with Ron. Aren't siblings used to fighting and getting over it?”

“I suppose to some extent, but I think I’d still like to find a way to help him that doesn't involve fighting.”

“Well,” Harry began, shifting uncomfortably, “Maybe you could, you know.....”

Hermione raised her eyebrows. “No, what?”

“You know. Girlfriend stuff.”

Her lips quirked in amusement at Harry’s discomfort. “You mean, seduce him into a better frame of mind?”

“Yes! No. I mean, sort of. It works when Ginny--”

She held up a hand. “I get the idea. I suppose that might work. Maybe if I...”

“I'll leave the details to you,” Harry cut in hurriedly. “Until then, I’ll just try to give Ron some chances to open up about it if he’s ready.”

“I hope that'll be enough,” Hermione said, worriedly fidgeting with her hair. “Maybe it’s too much, too soon. Maybe Hitchens should slow down--”

But Harry was shaking his head. “I don't think so. He’s already been really good about easing Ron into all this. But the longer he goes without getting to the main problem, the bigger the risk that Ron’ll just slip back down into that dark hole he was in, and this time we might not be able to bring him back out of it.”

They both sat there silently for a while, turning over that possibility and its implications over in their minds.

 

 

Ron wandered down Diagon Alley, his stomach full from a warm lunch at the Leaky, but in no hurry to rush back to the shop while he still had some time on his lunch hour. He’d long suspected that George saved up the worst jobs for the days he worked, and today was no exception. Just this morning he’d had to set up three new, elaborate displays, having to restart the first one when he was halfway through because George wanted all the boxes facing the same way. Then he’d had to move inventory from one side of the stockroom to the other, for no reason that he could see. When he got back, he was going to have to give demonstrations on a few of the latest gags, and he had the feeling that he’d be having to regrow his eyebrows multiple times throughout the rest of the day. 

He wasn't walking very fast, but at least it was helping with some of the nervous energy he could feel building up in his body--something that was increasing as his appointment drew near. He was just thinking that maybe he’d go for a fly later, or spend a couple of hours exercising, when someone bumped his shoulder. An automatic apology sprang to his lips, only to die as he saw who it was.

“Pethwick,” he growled, knowing and not caring how hostile he sounded.

“Weasley,” Pethwick replied, giving him a smarmy grin.

Ron eyed him up and down, unimpressed by the expensive acid green dragonskin jacket the other man wore; the material was obviously expensively tailored, but the color just made him look jaundiced. 

“What are you doing here?” Ron asked, unable to believe that the encounter was accidental.

Pethwick shrugged lazily, standing so that people were forced to walk into the street to get around him. “It’s still a public place, so you can't ban me from _that,”_ he said. “Although I'm sure you would, if you could. What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be out saving the world, or at least taking credit for this small part of it?”

“It’s my day off,” Ron answered, knowing that Pethwick probably knew he worked with George, but not wanting to give him any more information that was absolutely necessary. 

“I imagine you'll be having a lot of those coming up,” Pethwick said, his eyes glinting with barely suppressed malice, even though his lips remained curved in a smile. 

Ron narrowed his eyes, consciously forcing himself not to clench his fists. “Just what the hell do you mean by that?”

“What do you mean, what do I mean?”

“Don't play around--I know you're planning something!”

“Sounding a bit paranoid there, Weasley. Be careful, that temper of yours is starting to show. Wouldn't do to attack a civilian, would it?”

Taking a few deep breaths, pushing the air forcefully from his nose, Ron brought himself under control. “A little shite like you is hardly worth losing my temper over,” he said, glad to note that his voice was even.

A brief look of what could only be disappointment flickered across Pethwick’s eyes, so fast one almost might believe they had imagined it. 

“A lucky thing it is for you, too,” Pethwick said, the smile on his face becoming hard. “You're a very lucky man though, aren't you? But luck always runs out. And when it finally does for you, I promise you that I’ll be there to enjoy it.”

“I wouldn't count on it, you--”

A large group of people surged between him, and when they had finally cleared out, Ron was barely able to make out Pethwick’s brightly colored jacket disappearing around the street corner. He thought about chasing him down, but with his luck, Pethwick would probably file some sort of harassment charge against him. He had no idea what had just happened, but he knew he’d been issued a warning, if not an out and out threat. Concern over his upcoming appointment were driven from his mind.

 

His eyes narrowed, making those around him skitter out of his path.

One thing was certain. He’d just traded one worry for another.

**A.N. Short chapter? Yes. But it’s basically a ‘bridge’ to the next part--next chapter will be the start of Ron’s more difficult sessions, along with possibly a taste of what Pethwick is cooking up.....**

 

 

 

 


	19. Chapter 19

The sun was barely visible on the horizon, but Ron had been awake for hours. He was in turn panicked or numb; frustrated or resigned. Today was the appointment he had been dreading, and he hadn't even been able to escape the thought of it for even a few hours by sleep. His eyes were adjusted to the low level of light, and to distract himself, he watched Hermione, taking in the slow rise and fall of her body as she slept. He was lying close enough to her that her hair danced every time he exhaled, brown curls in a tumble across her pillow and springing up in the air between them. Slowly, Ron reached out and gently touched one, before stroking a finger across the curve of her shoulder, her skin bare and warm. 

They had made love long into the night, Hermione trying to comfort him and keep him relaxed for this morning. It had helped, at least during the act, but she had long ago fallen into an exhausted sleep. He smiled wryly, thinking that at any other time he’d be pleased over that fact. Today, though, he had an almost childlike urge to wake her up and have her talk to him, like when he used to make his mum tell him endless stories when he was sick. He didn't, though. He knew she was knackered, and would have to get up and go into work in a few short hours. He also knew he’d been more than a bit irritable the past couple of days, even though she’d been patient with him. He understood why she wanted him to talk about it, but he just.....couldn’t. Every time he would start, his mind would dart from point to point, making him unable to focus, which made him more nervous. Hermione probably thought she would make it easier by helping him go over things first before he had to talk about it with a stranger, and from a logical standpoint, it made sense. But for him, he was going to be lucky to get it out once--and as much as he loved Hermione, right now that place had to be in Hitchens’ office if he was ever going to get any bloody closure, or whatever it was.

He didn't want to get into an argument this morning, and he didn't want her to be worried over him--she had been that way since she had seen how the subject affected him, and he knew that without meaning to, he had withdrawn a little. Right now he was struggling to hold himself together, and he didn't have much left over to give. But he could give her a few more precious hours of sleep that he wouldn't be getting himself, so silently he rolled over and slipped from the bed, using the stealth used from training to dress, gather his things, and leave a short note before Apparating away, all without Hermione showing even the slightest sign that she had felt him leave the bed.

This early in the morning, the Ministry was like another world. Usually it was loud and bustling, people hurrying to and fro in every direction--sometimes to the point that it was hard to find a place to hear yourself think. Now, Ron’s footsteps echoed eerily down the hall, the creepy feeling heightened by the fact that most of the lights hadn't been lit for the day. Once or twice he passed someone staggering out of an office where they had passed an all nighter, looking rumpled and glazed, but they shuffled past without acknowledging him, but he knew from personal experience that they were so tired they probably didn't even register seeing him. 

As the minutes ticked by, the early arrivals--those who were dedicated, brown nosing, or being punished--began to show up, and he began making smaller circuits so he wouldn't be spotted by anyone he knew. He was in casual clothes today since it had been decided to give him the day off, since they weren't sure how he was going to react during this session, and it would probably be best if he didn't have to go out in the field. It was a little frustrating, but it was likely also for the best; you couldn't afford to lose focus on a mission, and it wasn't fair to anyone else if he got sloppy. He’d also finally started to build a better rapport with his coworkers, and breaking down and biting heads off would set things back, to say the least. 

Even though he still had an hour until his appointment, Ron followed his usual path to the office, noticing that the receptionist wasn't even in yet. He hesitated, then went on ahead, figuring that Hitchens could always tell him to leave if he had to see someone else first. He sank down into the squat, comfy leather chairs in front of the desk, shifting restlessly. Having nothing to distract him, he tapped his fingers rapidly on the arm of the chair, then stopped abruptly once he realized he was annoying himself with the noise. 

The door opened behind him and he whipped around to find Hitchens walking in, carrying a large hamper. The Mind Healer smiled at him, as if unsurprised to see him there.

“Sorry, I know I'm too early,” Ron said. “I can leave if someone else is coming.”

But Hitchens shook his head as he made his way to the desk, setting down the hamper and waving Ron back into his seat. “No, You're my only appointment until this afternoon today. But I've found that when a critical session comes up, patients are usually early or don't show up at all.”

“It was toss up,” Ron admitted with a nod.

“You made the right choice. And I'm assuming you'd like to start, so you get it over with faster?”

“If you don't mind, then yeah,” Ron said, relieved. He knew an hour one way or the other didn't really make a difference, but just the idea of it made him feel like the end was closer to being in sight.

“Excellent. Let me just get things set up, and we’ll start.”

Ron watched in growing confusion as Hitchens began to unload the hamper, pulling out trays of pastries and small savory breakfast dishes, which all seemed to have Warming Charms cast on them.

Seeing his look, Hitchens explained, “People usually get so nervous before coming in that they skip eating, and end up getting sick as the meeting goes on. After one patient passed out on me, I decided that having something on hand helps, and it seems to have worked pretty well. So, as we’re talking, feel free to help yourself if you feel more relaxed and feel hungry, or if you start feeling ill.”

“Thanks, but I think I’m fine for now,” Ron said, although he did notice a thick slice of banana bread that appealed to him, maybe for later.

“Feel free to change your mind. Now, what did I do with that blasted quill....” he hunted around on his desk for a moment, before pulling the missing item out from a small sheaf of papers. “There. I think if there’s not anything else, we can begin.”

“Alright,” Ron swallowed thickly, sitting back in his seat, holding his body tightly as if braced for impact.

“I'd like for you to tell me how you met Harry Potter,” Hitchens said, his quill poised to take notes.

The question rather took Ron aback. “What? How’s that important?” He asked, his mind trying to shift from the war to something that had happened when he was eleven.

“Potter is your best friend, isn't he?”

“Well, yeah, but--”

“You followed him into a war, and from what made it into the papers, there were quite a few harrowing events even before the general public even realized what was happening. You saw and did things most children your age wouldn't, so yes, I’d say he was pretty important, wouldn't you?”

Ron shrugged. He hadn't really given it much thought, but he supposed that was true. Sure, his family would've been involved in the war anyway, but he probably wouldn't have been as intensely involved until the final battle, like most of the other students, if he hadn't been such close friends with Harry. Haltingly, he began to describe his meeting with Harry, his grip on the arms of his chair loosening as he spoke.

“Everyone knew who Harry Potter was, of course,” Hitchens commented. “Would you say that his fame was what originally prompted you to be friends?”

At that, Ron scowled. “You mean, did I set out to kiss his arse so I could use him? No. I mean, sure, I was curious about him, especially since he looked so....ordinary. But I think that’s what I liked best about him at first--that he was ordinary, I mean. He looked just as nervous as I was for his first day at Hogwarts, and he seemed....almost uncomfortable about the attention people gave him. And he wasn't so, I guess you might say intimidating, when I found out that he could relate about having to wear cast offs and didn't get much attention at home.”

Of course, it had taken him a little longer to realize that Harry’s home life was completely messed up--at least any lack of attention at the Burrow came from his parents being stretched thin trying to spread it among all of them, while Harry’s family out and out hated him.

“While we talked, I realized he didn't know all that much about our world, and I figured the least I could do was help him out. Before I knew it, we were mates.”

“If I recall right, your family were some of the ones that believed Voldemort would return--weren't you afraid to be friends with him?”

Ron shrugged. “We believed he would, but at that point I wasn't really focused on the danger. At that age, it seemed like the kind of thing that happened to other people, and that somehow I’d get through it, along with everyone else I cared about.”

That hadn't worked so well, had it? It had probably been Cedric Diggory’s death that had brought them up short and made all three of them realize that their youth didn't make them immortal. That death could, and did, come to anyone. Collin. Dobby. Dumbledore. Fred......

“Ron? Ron!”

Ron jerked backwards, his eyes flickering rapidly from side to side. “Whatisit?” He spat out, not quite able to tell if he had missed anything.

“You were pulling into yourself. Are you alright, or should we quit for the day?” Hitchens asked him.

Embarrassed, Ron shook his head. “No, I can go on. Sorry about that.”

“There’s no reason to be sorry. This is highly stressful, and will probably happen again. Just be sure to let me know if things are getting too much. Now, back to what we were discussing.....I've heard some of what happened with your first encounter with Voldemort that year, but I’d like to hear it from your perspective.”

He paused to consider that. As far as he could recall, there wasn't anything about that particular incident that had any sensitive information--maybe a few things that would have been at the time, but nothing that could do any damage now. Reaching forward and taking a pastry (he was feeling a little lightheaded, and didn't want to embarrass himself any more by fainting), he recounted that night around mouthfuls.

Hitchens watched him intently as he spoke, only looking away to take the occasional note.

 

“......so most of the important stuff happened while I was unconscious,” Ron finished, still feeling faintly embarrassed that he hadn't lasted longer. 

“And you don’t consider what you did important?”

Ron shrugged. Not really. Harry was the one that had to go on, wasn't he? The only thing I could do was make sure he did.”

“I see. And did you never stop and think that without you, that wouldn't have been possible? That if it hadn't been for your skill and willingness to sacrifice yourself--something most twelve year olds would be more reluctant to do, I might add--Potter might not have succeeded that night?”

Well. No. He hadn't. 

“I just always assumed that Harry would've found a way,” he muttered, focusing his eyes on a small chip on the front of the desk. 

“Based on what reasoning?”

Ron gave a deep sigh of frustration. “I dunno, because he was.....well, because he was Harry! Things always seemed to work out for him in the end.” But even as he said that, he knew that wasn't true. There were plenty of things in Harry’s life that hadn't worked out, plenty of situations he had been in that shouldn't have had to have worked out.

“It sounds to me like you're rather overestimating Potter’s abilities and underestimating your own,” Hitchens observed. 

“I've been told I do that,” Ron admitted, brushing a few crumbs off his sleeve.

“Don't you think that’s rather unfair to yourself? When you refuse to acknowledge your contributions and worth, you not only end up seeing yourself negatively, but it throws off your perception about your relationships with other people.”

“Maybe. I've gotten better about it, but I don't really know what else to do about it.”

“It’s easy to say stop being critical of yourself, but that’s not an easy habit to break. But you might try stepping outside yourself and judging yourself as a stranger--try to imagine how you would feel if the actions were someone else’s.”

That made an odd amount of sense. Looking back on the chess game alone, he’d have thought that Harry or Hermione had been brave, if it had been them. It might not always work, but he could at least try to think that way sometimes in the future.

“I’ll give it a try. What now? Didn't you want to talk about.....you know......” the pastries he had eaten swelled and knotted in his stomach.

To his surprise, Hitchens shook his head. “We’ll get there, but not today. I think the war was critical for you, but that wasn't something that sprang out of nowhere. It had been building since your first year of school, and I think that’s where a lot of the groundwork for your later feelings and decisions will be rooted. We need to look at the whole, and not just one piece. Besides, I think that’s enough for today, judging by your lip.”

Frowning in confusion, Ron brought his fingers to his mouth, feeling a few drops of warm, sticky blood. Damn, he must've been biting his lip without realizing it.

“I can go on,” he insisted, although his heart wasn't in it. He was more tired than he thought he’d be, and some of his old nervousness was creeping in.

“No, I think this was a good start--we can push harder later if we need to. Right now, I recommend that you go home and do something to relax.”

“Are you sure? Because to be honest, it doesn't feel like we did very much. I mean, I was all ready to get to the nasty bits and get it over with,” Ron said, feeling both relieved and disappointed. 

Hitchens sat back in his chair, spinning his quill between two fingers. “Ron, when you started training, you probably didn't notice any difference in your body that first day did you? Aside from pain, that is,” he added with a grin.

Ron snorted. “No, pain was about all, although it felt like I should have muscles the size of boulders.”

 

“But I'm sure that by the end, you could look back to where you started, and see the results. It’s the same with this. It’s going to feel slow, and sometimes painful and pointless, but by the end, you should be able to look back at the starting point and see some changes.”

“I hope you're right. But I've guess you've had more experience at this than me, so I guess I’ll try to hold out and do it your way,” Ron agreed.

“Trust me, at some point, you'll be wishing that I was going easier on you,” Hitchens said with a smile. “So you might as well enjoy this part while you can.”

Ron stood up. “Then I guess I’ll be going. Maybe I'll take a fly to clear my head.”

“An excellent idea. I'll owl you about the next appointment.”

They shook hands, and Ron ambled out of the office, squinting from the headache that was developing behind his eyes. He was annoyed with himself. If he got this worked up over just first year, then how was he going to be when they talked about the war? Maybe Hitchens was smarter than he thought about not plunging into it straight away. And, he told himself, he had to remember that Hitchens needed the background information about everything leading up to that point. That final year was when everything had come to a head, but it had been building for ages, and treating as an isolated incident would probably be a mistake. As much as he’d like to get it out of the way, it was probably best to buckle in for the long haul and do it right.

He sighed. “Being mature is bloody awful.”

 

 

Hermione glanced at her clock for the fifth time in as many minutes. She still hadn't heard from Ron today. She had expected a note when she got to work. She had hoped that she would see him at lunch. She hand thought that at the very least, he would be waiting at her flat when she got off work. But no, not a word all day! She kept waiting for him to come in, rearranging herself in various casual positions so it didn't look like she was waiting for him. After almost throwing out her hip by crossing her legs too energetically for the eleventh time, she through down her magazine with a huff. She had tried to be patient. She was trying, desperately to respect his privacy. But patience wasn't one of her outstanding virtues, and she came to the decision that she was at least going to go check on him. She stood abruptly and stalked over to the Floo.

“The worst he can do is tell me to leave, I suppose.”

 


	20. Chapter 20

**A.N. Sorry this is late, everyone! My nephew that I haven't seen in about seven years visited for a week, and what with that and helping my sister over the holiday, I’ve gotten behind. I know a lot of people are going to be frustrated that nothing really exciting happens in this chapter, but that’s sort of the point. Sometimes you do stall out and sort of hit a wall, where it feels like nothing is happening; there isn't a sitcom thirty minute resolution on a weekly basis. It’s irritating and discouraging, but that’s the reality of the process. I know a lot of people are encouraged by Ron getting help, but I would feel like a liar if I didn't portray the less than dramatic aspects. But don't fear! Things never stay quiet for long, and Ron will soon be kept very, very busy what with one thing and another!**

 

 

 

Hermione arrived in Ron’s flat with a small pop, and she froze in place in the darkness of the living room, suddenly wondering if she had been mistaken in coming. What if Ron wanted privacy after what he had gone through today? What if not coming over to see her had been his way of signaling that he needed time alone? Just because she wanted to share every step with him didn't necessarily mean that he did, or, at least, that he could right away. Still, she knew it had been about an intense subject he had been dreading, and she was worried about him....fine, she would just check to make sure he was managing on his own, and then she would leave. If he was even here, which she was starting to doubt by the continued darkness. With her wand, she flicked on the lights.

“Ron?” She called loudly enough for her voice to carry to the other rooms. “Are you here?”

There was a thump, a yelp and muffled curse, and a spell shot over her head.

Hermione gave a little scream, raising her wand to shield herself.

“Hermione?” Ron said from the floor, his voice vibrating with tension. “Fuck! I thought someone had managed to get in! Are you alright? It was just supposed to stun you!”

“Merlin, Ron! Didn't you realize it was someone that your Wards would let in?” Hermione asked, clutching her chest.

Ron heaved himself up onto the couch, still clutching his wand, his hair matted down on one side. “Assuming things like that is how people end up dead, Hermione. I woke up and didn't know what the hell was going on!”

Her heart slowing down a bit, Hermione took a deep breath. “Sorry, I should've given more warning. I didn't realize you would be asleep though.”

Ron scratched his jaw, swallowing a yawn. “It’s fine. Didn't think you would take off from work this early, is all.”

Hermione frowned, eyeing him closely. “Ron, what time do you think it is?”

He shrugged. “Noonish? Two?”

She walked closer to him, stopping in front of the sofa. “It’s nearly nine,” she said gently.

Shock caused his jaw to sag, his eyes blinking owlishly before he checked his watch, then leaped up to dash over and open the curtains. He looked out at the dark evening sky before jerking them closed again and turning to look at her.

“Bloody hell!” He nearly shouted, running both hands through his hair. “I could have sworn I was only asleep for an hour, two at most! How could I sleep the entire day away without realizing it?”

Hermione walked over to him, taking his hand and absently rubbing small circles with her thumb as she looked up at him. In spite of his unanticipated nap, his eyes were bloodshot and dark circled. 

“I don't think you've been sleeping very well the last few nights for one thing. And I suspect your session today was stressful, to say the least. Opening up about what happened during the war--”

“We didn't even get that far,” Ron confessed, leading her back over to sit on the sofa.

“What do you mean?” Hermione asked, drawing her legs up as she turned sideways to face him. “I thought that was the whole point of this session?”

Ron snorted. “So did I. But Hitchens went all the way back to first year--said that the roots of the war started then, and that the things that happened and the decisions I made affected everything that came later.”

Hermione was silent as she mulled that over. “I suppose that’s true. That last year wasn’t an isolated incident, and the only way to really understand it is to know the history behind it. But how do you feel about it?”

He shook his head. “Honestly? I don't know. I understand what he’s getting at on one level, and I know he’s right, but at the same time, I just want to get all of this over with. Spit it out about the final battle and have him say what’s wrong with me and what I need to do. I feel like going in next time and just telling him that if he doesn't do that, then I’m through.”

“And are you going to do that?” Hermione asked, doing her best to mask the fact that she thought that was a bad idea.

“No,” he said grudgingly. “I _want_ to, but I won't. He’s done a good job up until now, and there were things he had me do that I thought were mental, but ended up helping. I should at least go back a few more times and see how it goes, don't you think?”

“It’s your decision, but since you asked my opinion, I think it’s the right one.”

Ron quirked a brow. “Who are you, and what have you done with Hermione?”

She smacked him lightly on the shoulder. “I'm trying to be sensitive and understanding, so watch it!”

He laughed, but his smile soon faded. “I guess my extended nap is proof that he was right. If I was like this from just today, I hate to think what would've happened if he dove straight into the hard stuff.”

“True. And maybe this way, he might be able to pinpoint the start of your problems if you take things in segments. If he can do that, it might be easier to help you.”

“I just wish that understanding all that made it easier to go through. What if I do all this, and at the end, he still can't fix what’s wrong with me completely?” 

Hermione responded to the worry in his tone by leaning against him and squeezing his hand between hers. “Maybe he can't. Maybe it’s not the kind of thing that can ever really completely heal, like how it is for George about Fred. But look at George! He’s never going to get over that loss, but he’s improved so much! He’s not nearly as depressed and self destructive, and he’s starting to actually take joy in living, and growing a relationship with Angelina. He’ll always have to carry that hurt with him, but at least it’s not consuming him.”

“Well, if George can hang on, then I suppose I can--he's even more impatient than I am!”

She resisted making a comment. Barely.

“Well, he is,” Ron insisted, although not very forcefully. 

“If George can stick to something, then you can, too,” Hermione said, more conviction in her words. Ron might drag his feet, but once committed to something, he was a terrier.

“I guess that’s sorted, then. Damn, I wish I’d had time to take a fly to clear my head! I’d planned on doing that, then coming over to yours to let you know how things went. Sorry if I worried you--I really did fall asleep and lose track of time.”

Hermione smiled to show she wasn't upset. “I know, and I'm not mad. I was worried when you didn't show up, since I didn't know how you were feeling, but I intended to leave again if you needed space. Do you?”

In answer, he gripped her hand tighter. “No! No, I don't want you to leave, although I'd like to change the subject, since I’m getting a little stressed now. Really wish I’d had time for flying, since I think it might’ve helped a little.”

Standing up, she pulled him along with her. “Then let’s go right now; that is, if you don't mind a passenger.”

“But you hate flying,” Ron said, making no move to go get his broom.

With a frown, she placed her hands on her hips. “Can you think of any time that I've flown without being worried about what marks I would get for it, or having someone trying to sling curses at me?”

“Well, no, I reckon either one puts a bit of a damper on it,” he admitted.

“Then let’s see if you can change my feelings on the subject, shall we? After we stop at the Leaky and get you fed, since I doubt you've eaten.”

Not being one to look a gift hippogriff in the mouth, Ron went off to get his broom. He was tired, anxious, and uncertain about the future, but he was also, he thought as he rejoined Hermione and took her hand, pretty damn lucky.

 

 

It was a little over two hours later when Ron got back to his flat, after leaving Hermione at hers. She had invited him to stay the night, but he had made excuses about having things he needed to do. Really, though, he was a little worried about the possibility of nightmares, and didn't want to keep her up or worry her. She hadn't called him on it, but she did give him the look that always let him know that she knew what was going on. He appreciated it though, since after already dealing with his session and discussing it with her earlier, an argument would have just killed the slightly relaxed feeling that the broom ride had given him. He had been able to forget everything while he had been focused on flying and making sure she was having a good time (not to mention enjoying every time she would grab him), and while he could still detect a certain level of anxiousness within himself, at least he had lost the headache that had been hanging about the edges.

He was just checking his wards before bed when the Floo flared to life, and Harry’s head popped up.

“I'm not interrupting anything, am I?” Harry asked, nodding at Ron’s wand.

“Nah. I was just getting settled for the night. Is something up?”

“I just had a quick question. I know up until now, you've only been practicing with the team, but something’s come up. We have a match tomorrow against the Fire, Explosion, and Spontaneous Combustion Department, and we need a Keeper. Can you fill in for us?”

Ron’s first instinct was to say no. He was tired and had a lot on his mind, and he wasn't feeling particularly sociable, especially if other people were counting on him and he couldn't keep his head in the game. On the other hand, some physical exercise might help, like the flying had tonight. A good game would not only take his mind off things if he could focus on it, but it would wear his body out to the point his mind might not be able to keep him awake. 

“Sure, I guess so, if you don't think anyone else will have a problem with it,” he answered.

“Everyone else wants you, but they figured you might say no if they asked; they made me use my irresistible charm so it would be harder for you to turn down,” Harry joked.

“Little do they know, I'm immune,” Ron said, rolling his eyes. “But I'll still do it anyway. Was that all you wanted?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer, then seemed to change his mind about something half way through. “Have you already talked to Hermione tonight?”

“Just got back from seeing her to her flat, why?”

Harry’s head bobbed, meaning he was probably shrugging. “Just thought she would want to see how things went today, is all. Look, you look knackered, so I'm going to let you get some sleep--we need you in top form tomorrow.”

They said their goodbyes, but Ron hadn't been tired enough to miss the subtle hints that Harry had given him. He’d obviously known he had talked to Hermione about his session, and was worn out from both. Having gone through highly stressful situations himself, Harry knew that retelling it over and over right afterwards only made you feel even more tired and frustrated, so he wasn't the type to press other people. Of course, Ron knew that he was probably on the Floo or over at Hermione’s already, but that was fine. She knew what was alright to share and what wasn't, so he didn't mind her filling Harry in for him. Maybe he would talk about it with him later, but for now, he was done. Done, and exhausted. His body felt as if it were made of stone, and it took all of his energy to drag himself to his room, strip down, and stretch out on the bed--which he dimly registered as ridiculous, given how long he had slept earlier that day. Ridiculous or not, though, he barely had enough time to make sure his wand was positioned correctly under his pillow before unconsciousness overtook him.

It felt like only moments later when he threw himself into an upright position, gasping for air. The mattress beneath him was soaked in sweat, the thin sheet clinging to his skin as he struggled to remember where he was. His hand had found his wand instinctively, and he held it in front of him, his eyes darting around the room, searching for threats. When there were none to be found, he slumped forward, bracing his arms on his knees. 

Fuck, he thought. He'd known this was going to happen. What was wrong with him? All he had done was talk about the past--and hardly even the worst part of the past--and here he was, shaking like a little kid that had been listening to scary stories. Why hadn't someone developed a charm to fix this? Something like a permanent cheering charm. Muggles and those new to the Magical world were always a bit obsessed with magic, but sometimes, Ron thought, it was bloody useless when it really mattered.

Checking his watch, he saw that he was only an hour earlier than usual. Not too bad. He might as well get up, so with a groan, he heaved himself off the bed, deciding not to bother with a shower. He only had to work this morning, which would be paperwork unless something came up, and then he would be playing Quidditch; it made more sense to wait until after. 

In the space of time it took him to slide into clothes and make a quick breakfast, he was at the office and already halfway through his papers by the time everyone came trickling in. Most stopped by to say hello, but Ron found he could do little more than grunt. He wasn't rude, or anything, but he wasn't as interactive as he had been recently, and it was enough for people to notice. Harry in particular, although that was probably because he knew him so well.

“You doing okay, Ron?” Harry asked, keeping his voice low enough that others couldn't hear over the din of conversation and moving around.

Ron glanced up from his desk. “I'm fine, just kind of tired. You know I haven't played an actual game in awhile, so I think that’s part of it,” he said, which was at least partially true.

Harry gave him a slow nod. “Sure, I know. But you'll be fine--you always are once you get out there. Just....let me know if you need anything, alright? To talk, or, well......anything, you know?”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course. But I’m fine, really. Just bloody stupid nerves.”

He felt Harry watch him for a few minutes more, but was glad when he finally left for his own desk. He didn't want to talk about it right now, especially here. Maybe later, when he didn't have the game hanging over him. If he got too upset there was no way he could play well, and then he’d just feel bad since he knew people were counting on him.Feeling a little stressed, he stood and walked to the bathroom, where he splashed cold water over his face, before bracing his hands on the sink and breathing deeply.

He was going to keep it together, he told himself, slowly calming down. Alright, so things hadn't gone as he’d thought, and he hadn't made progress this week. Even with that, he’d been doing pretty well up until now, Right? Right. He’d been told not to expect miracles and that this would be hard. That was fine. He’d gone into this with a realistic frame of mind, and he wasn't a stranger to hard. He gave his shoulders a shake, loosening up his muscles, and gave himself a nod in the mirror. So maybe he didn't feel like he'd moved forward.

He still refused to give up or lose ground.


End file.
